Chapter 8
8
A fter two days of rain and rough seas, the weather turned balmy, as it oft did in the heat of summer. Gibb and his officers had enjoyed a dinner of roast chicken and a bottle of particularly delicious wine. Of course, Miss Harcourt had joined them, expertly flirting with every man at the table. It was odd that the woman saw herself as not good at flirting. In Gibb’s opinion, she didn’t need to try. A woman equipped with such wit and in possession of such mysterious black eyes fanned by inordinately long lashes could make a man’s heart stutter with a mere blink. Every evening she dined while entertaining them with diverting conversation before slipping behind the door of her cabin.
As usual, Gibb took a turn about the decks long after the crew had headed for their hammocks, leaving only the night watch up top—a few able seamen who had spent their lives at sea, most of whom were restless souls like Gibb.
After he’d made his way to the bow of the ship, he climbed onto the rigging that supported the jib sails out over the prow. The hemp ropes were just wide enough for his wingspan, and he balanced there, daring the gods of the sea to thwart him. An indescribable sense of excitement touched his soul when he balanced out over the water in the dead of night, a wind tousling his hair, the ropes digging into the flesh on his palms. Wings spread like a seabird, he sang a Highland ditty to the rhythm of the sails flapping overhead and the whisper of the ship’s wake.
“Far have I travelled and much have I seen,
“But there’s nay so bonny as the blue waters of Scotland,
“Be it the beaches of Orkney or the brooding waters of the firth,
“I sail the seas of Scotland in me dreams?—”
A soft footstep cut him short. A footstep that shouldn’t be on deck this hour of night.
“Please do not stop on account of me,” said Miss Harcourt. “I had no idea you possessed such a riveting bass voice.”
Now Gibb truly was flying. At least his heart had grown a pair of wings. He glanced over his shoulder and hopped down, landing beside her. “You oughtn’t be out here this late at night.”
“Oh?” she asked, tilting up that delicate chin. “But those rules do not apply to you?”
“I dunna oft sleep but a few hours. Besides, I like the quiet of the night sea.”
“It is different out here at night,” she said, toying with a button at the top of her pelisse. Her hair had been tied back with a ribbon, but a lock had escaped its bounds and was plastered across her damp forehead.
“How so?” he asked, sweeping the hair away and tucking it behind her ear.
“There’s nothing restricting us like there is on land—no fences, no trees to circumvent. Having never crossed an ocean, I’m surprised not to see any seabirds.” She raised her arms, stretching her fingers upward. “Above us, the night sky is filled with innumerable stars. It seems to go on infinitely. It is almost as if…”
“As if?” he asked.
“…we are the only two people in the world.”
“It does seem that way. Aside from Danny at the helm and Rupert in the crow’s nest, we are very much alone, miss.” He took her hand. “Are you a stargazer, perchance?”
“I cannot say I am.”
Gibb led her to the starboard rail and pointed. “We all are familiar with the moon.”
“Mm-hmm. That’s a waxing crescent, is it not?”
“Aye.” He shifted his finger downward. “That bright spot below and to the right just a tad is Mars.”
“Oh my goodness. It seems so vivid. I had no idea one could see Mars without a telescope.”
“Only at certain times, but the planets and the constellations are far more vivid when at sea than anywhere else.”
“Fascinating.”
Gibb placed his hand in the small of her back and moved his finger. “Do you see the bright dot to the left, almost touching the horizon?”
She leaned toward him ever so slightly, but enough to cause his heart to skip a beat. “The fuzzy one?”
“That’s it,” he whispered into her ear. “’Tis Saturn.”
“Truly? But there are so many bright dots everywhere, I cannot believe that you can pick out two planets so easily.”
“It might be easy now, but only after years of training, and learning to navigate in the navy.” He shifted his hand, realizing it was still pressing against Miss Harcourt’s back, which had grown a tad moist with perspiration. Gibb fingered her sleeve. “What are you wearing?”
“With the heat I was rather restless and wasn’t ready for sleep. Rather than wake Maribel, I donned a pelisse.”
“But this is wool.”
“Yes.”
“You must be sweltering.”
“A little, though the breeze out here feels heavenly on my face.”
He tugged her into the bow, not up onto the ropes where he’d been, but right into the point of the prow. “If it is wind you’re seeking, gaze out over the sea and let her speak to your soul,” he whispered, urging her to stand in front of him, and quite subtly slipping the ribbon from her tresses. “Let the wildness of the breeze whisk through your hair and breathe its life into your verra being.”
“I feel…”
“Hmm?” he asked, closing his eyes as her hair swept around him.
“So free.”
But she wasn’t free enough, not with her hands gripping the rail and her feet flat on the deck. Gibb closed his hands around her waist. “Spread your arms wide, lass,” he said, lifting her above his head. “Now fly!”
Her skirts batted around his face, but the thrill of her gasp made the effort worthwhile. “I feel entirely weightless!”
“Are your eyes open?” he asked, weaving his face out from the shroud of her gown.
She arched toward his palms as if she expected him to set her down. “I’m afraid I might fall.”
“I have you—now open those bonny black eyes and ride the waves!”
“Oh, oh my!” Miss Harcourt called out. “No wonder you like it up here. The view is astonishing.”
Chuckling, he set her down. “I do believe you have the spirit of an adventurer.”
“I’m afraid you may be right, though aside from my recent trip to Scotland to meet your ship, I have never left the South of England.”
“And now you are making a potentially perilous crossing to join in holy matrimony with a stranger.”
By the swell of heavy silence on the air, his words had changed the tenor of their chance meeting. He also knew it was necessary to do so before he did something stupid, like pulling her into his arms and kissing her until she promised to stay aboard the Prosperity for the rest of her days…which would be a grave mistake.
Gibb loved women as much as the next man, but he had pledged his life to the sea. He was not meant to be married or attached to any female. He’d known other sailors who’d taken wives, and it never turned out well. Someone usually ended up being unfaithful or gravely unhappy. Children were raised without their fathers, a fact that bothered Gibb to his bones. If he were to impregnate a wife, he couldn’t imagine not being a part of his child’s life. To see a son’s first smile or to experience a daughter’s first steps were wonders not to be missed.
But Gibb would have none of it. His dreams were of voyages, of battling the briny deep, and of seeing new shores in faraway places. He was a second son, and now that Martin’s wife had birthed James, Gibb was no longer next in line for the dukedom. He was free to make his mark upon this world, and he’d chosen the sea.
Miss Harcourt looked to her toes—which happened to be bare. “Yes, I suppose I am on an adventure of sorts. I only hope the destination comes with a happy ending.”
“Do you have any reason to believe it will not?” he asked, his gut clenching.
“Papa gave me Mr. Schuyler’s letters. From them I thought my intended seemed nice enough.”
Nice enough was not half good enough for this woman. In the short time he’d come to know her, Gibb had been fascinated by her intellect, by the excitement she imparted when talking about her tablets. Like him, she had strived to educate herself on matters she deemed important. And regardless if she thought so or not, she was a graceful dancer. What other hidden talents lay beneath Isabella Harcourt’s cool exterior? If only he had more time to come to know her.
“But not incredibly nice?” he asked. “Or incredibly romantic?”
“Oh, no. His letters were all quite formal and earnest—mostly about the transaction at hand, as well as a bit about his work and his house.”
“Odd you should refer to your pending nuptials as a transaction.”
“But is that not what an arranged marriage is? Is that not what happens to most young ladies on the marriage mart?”
“Perhaps, but they dunna usually marry a complete stranger on the other side of the world.”
Her face fell with a wee groan. “No.”
“You mentioned his work. What is his trade?”
“He owns a silver mine.”
“I see.” Gibb had spent enough time in America to know there were a great many mines. Whether they were profitable was yet to be seen. “Your father mentioned Mr. Schuyler maintains rooms in Savannah. I’m guessing his house is not in the city?”
Miss Harcourt shook her head. “His house is near the mine. One of his letters mentioned that it’s near a township called Lockhart.”
Gibb also knew a bit about Southern townships. Most of them consisted of a shack they called a general store, and the townsfolk were fortunate if there as a church within twenty miles. “Will you marry right away?”
“Papa said Mr. Schuyler is an older gentleman and is rather anxious to…”
“Hmm?”
The lass hid her face in her hands. “He is anxious to start a family.”
Dear God, that was the last thing Gibb wanted to hear standing on the deck in the dead of night with a woman with raven’s hair billowing about her hips as if she were the last woman on earth. He cleared his throat and swiped a hand across his eyes. He’d been gazing at far too many stars this night. It was best if he turned the topic toward something more terrestrial. “I’d like to see the tablets you’ve already translated.”
Her face brightened with her smile. “Would you truly?”
“From what I’ve seen so far, I believe they are extraordinary examples of an ancient Roman’s existence and must be preserved for future generations to see.”
“I agree, and that is why I am following the Society of Antiquaries’ recommendations for preservation of texts and tablets of this nature. Once I have the pieces put together for a tablet, I build a frame around the work and secure it under glass.”
“Aha, which is why your trunk is so incredibly heavy, is it?”
“Yes,” she said while the wind picked up her mane of tresses and blew them out over the bow. “The glass and the stone box in which I found the tablets is quite heavy as well.”
Gibb captured a lock of silken hair and drew it to his nose. The woman’s scent nearly brought him to his knees—so sweet, so feminine, so alluring. “May I see them?”
“Perhaps tomorrow, when?—”
“Not tomorrow.” He kissed the lock of hair and let the strands slowly cascade from his fingertips. “Now.”
The captain had stopped to speak to the helmsman while Isabella slipped into her cabin. Overhead, the oil lamp squeaked in harmony with the rocking of the ship. She glanced upward as she opened her trunk. “I am well aware,” she said to the noise as if it were her conscience. “I should have said no.”
But she had not. His words had not been a request. No, no, Captain MacGalloway had issued a command—one given by a man who was accustomed to ordering people about and having them bend to his every whim.
Including me, dash it all.
And now Isabella was heaving ho like one of Lord Gibb’s sailors. Of course she wanted to show him the tablets, especially after he’d shown so much interest when he helped her identify the word succidaneus. Isabella’s father was a learned man and had initially been interested in the ruins when they first unearthed them. But Papa hadn’t given much consideration to the tablets. Perhaps he cared more about the money he’d earn when the antiquarians began charging visitors to view the site.
How odd that before he sold my hand in marriage, I had never thought of him as a fortune seeker .
She opened the trunk and pulled off the quilt she had packed atop two of the framed translated tablets that were safely stowed in the topmost wooden tray. Carefully, she lifted it out and placed it on the bed. Two frames rested atop another quilt and were packed securely with wool padding on all four sides.
She stared down at the first tablet she’d translated—the one that was rather salacious in its content. In truth, Isabella had never felt it was terribly off-color, even though she ought to have been mortified by the translation. Nonetheless, it was a piece of antiquity, an item that reflected the history of its time. After all, the Romans lusted for gladiatorial sport, and were renowned lovers. Why would this slave not be akin to his contemporaries?
Glancing downward, Isabella considered hiding the piece beath the quilt.
“Do you require assistance, miss?” asked the captain, appearing in the doorway.
Too late.
She straightened and forced a smile. In no way would Isabella show him the page in her journal with her translation of that particular piece. He’d have to figure out the content for himself—and she doubted he was fantastically skilled at translating Latin without referring to a dictionary, son of a duke or not.
“The first one I found is rather brief,” she said, her voice far too high-pitched. She cleared her throat and continued, “But the second one tells of our man’s sailing across the sea.”
The captain’s gaze slid to the first tablet—of course. The man was a natural-born rake, after all.
He reached for it, but Isabella stopped him by holding up her palm. “Please, I’d prefer to leave them in the tray.”
“Verra well,” he said, leaning over with his hands clasped behind his back.
Isabella bit her lip as she watched him read, the back of his neck growing uncharacteristically red.
“You said you translated this one?” he asked, straightening and looking her directly in the eyes.
Unable to hold his stare for all the butterflies flitting about her stomach, she cast her gaze to the floor, her face warming considerably. “Yes.”
“And the translation is in your journal?” he asked, moving to her writing table and placing his hand atop the worn-in leather volume embossed with the pet name her father had given her, Issy. “May I?”
She heaved a sigh. “Must you?”
He handed her the journal. “If you do not wish it, then I will honor your desire. Obviously, you are aware that he has written about?—”
She stamped her foot. “Yes, I am well aware of what he has written about, and notwithstanding its salacious nature, I strongly believe this chap’s writings give us an important window into the life of a man during Roman times.”
“That is verra…avant-garde of you.”
Isabella wasn’t about to go that far. Yes, she might be a bit forward-thinking and a bit daring, but not radically daring. “It is very practical of me, mind you.”
“Aye, it might be practical, but it also proves you’re no supercilious lass. No wonder you were averse to the ton . Your aversion surely wasna caused by your dancing—or your flirting expertise.”
“Oh, pshaw!” She batted a hand through the air. “Perhaps my dancing with you was passable because we were alone and there weren’t dozens of bystanders watching and judging my every step.”
A crooked smile stretched his sensual mouth, making smiling back utterly irresistible. “A bit bashful, are you? Ye ken there’s no need to be. I reckon young ladies would become green with envy while watching your every step.” He handed her the journal. “Will you do me the honor of reading your translation of the second tablet? My quick perusal suggests it contains nothing untoward.”
Isabella opened to the page she’d transcribed and ran her pointer finger down to the first translated word.
“ My dearest Flavia, I traveled to Britannia by boat, my leg shackled to a bench, one arm shackled to an oar. The drum beat continuously, the drummers working in shifts. But there were no shifts given to the miserable souls below the deck, sitting in their own urine while a tyrant with a whip ripped our flesh raw. More than once I thought I would meet my end and present my miserable soul to the gods of the dead. But my rage fueled me. I fixated on plotting my vengeance. Nonetheless, when the ship arrived in Britannia and I stood on the slaver’s podium where they sold me for a mere ten denarii, it wasn’t revenge that kept me alive. It was love. Love for you, Flavia, and the promise I made to one day return to your arms. No, I have not forgotten, nor will I. ”
Captain MacGalloway stood without uttering a word for a moment before he swiped a hand across his mouth. “He wrote to Flavia again.”
“Yes, his wife. If you recall in the tablet you helped me translate, he asks her to kiss their son on his behalf.”
The captain rubbed the back of his neck. “Poor bastard.”
Isabella closed her journal and set it on the writing table. “I can think of nothing worse than being condemned for a crime I did not commit.”
“Condemned and sold into slavery. I’d rather be hung and have my misery over with.”
“Perhaps our Roman proves his innocence in time.”
“Now I ken you believe in fairy stories. He’s more than likely to die of the ague than find his wife and son—and who kens what has happened to them . Life wasna easy for the families of soldiers who were convicted traitors.”
Isabella replaced the tray with the tablets in her trunk. “No, but perhaps someone has given Flavia safe harbor.”
“Let us hope so,” the captain said, stepping beside her.
As she straightened, the hair at the nape of her neck tingled with the brush of his fingertips. Out of the corner of her eye, Isabella watched as he lazily let her tresses slip across his palms, falling in a cascade of black. Before she ventured outside, she had tied it back with a ribbon, but her hair was so fine it was terribly difficult to keep tied in place, especially when there was a wind.
“You hair is like silk,” he whispered, his breath skimming her ear.
Isabella’s palms grew moist, her skin hot. Would he kiss her? Heaven knew she desperately wanted him to kiss her again. She closed her eyes and touched her fingers to her lips, remembering their single fleeting kiss behind the wood. And now they must never kiss again. She was promised to another. Even thinking about kissing the captain was sinful.
“May I ask you a question?” she said while her hair whooshed against her back.
“Aye.”
She faced him. He knew the contents of the first tablet yet hadn’t judged her. Perhaps there were many facets of Captain MacGalloway she was yet to understand. “Why did you kiss me in the park?”
In tandem with the darkening of his blue eyes, a grin slowly stretched across his lips. “I thought I apologized for that misstep.”
That was not the answer she sought. Was it entirely difficult to explain his reasoning? “So, you believe it was a mistake to kiss me?”
He cringed, looking toward the door. “Weeeeeeell…”
She huffed, shifting her hands to her hips. Perhaps he was a fiend—at least deep down a little elfin fiend existed in his character. “Did you believe me to be a woman of easy virtue?”
“Och, nay, not at all. I thought you were—” He raked his fingers through his sun-kissed hair, making him look all the more fiendish, as well as captivating, possibly charming and enchanting, and most definitely difficult to ignore.
But Isabella desperately wanted him to an answer the question that had been keeping her awake at night. “Hmm? Please continue. I truly want to know what drove you to make, in your words, such a misstep .”
He held up his palms. “Truth be told, I assumed you were attending my mother’s luncheon and had stolen away for some time alone.”
Ah, yes. She’d always been a consummate wallflower. This time she might have appeared to be a garden flower—or garden nymph, as it were. But Isabella was not satisfied with his reply. “Aside from being mistaken about my being one of the dowager’s guests, I must admit I had very much desired to enjoy a bit of time alone. But that does not explain why you kissed me. Please. What compelled you to do it?”
Again those fingers raked his hair, but this time they continued backward until he gripped his nape. “As I recall, the wee kiss was in payment for our wager.”
“Perhaps, but you didn’t offer an alternative. You were quite emphatic about receiving a kiss. Tell me, captain, do you have a soft spot in your heart for bluestockings? For rather plain, bookish wallflowers?”
Groaning, he dropped his hands to his sides. “First of all, there is nothing plain about you. Though I will admit it did cross my mind that I might have a wee bit of fun with a shy young lady.”
“Young? Hardly.” At five and twenty, she had already crossed into spinsterhood and would have been quite content to remain unmarried, had her father not intervened. “I shall ask once more, did you think me a woman of easy virtue?”
“Och, nay. Quite the opposite. Truth be told, I thought you’d tell me to go take a chilly dip in the Firth of Forth.”
She snorted. “I probably should have done so.”
“Then why did you not?”
Why? Isabella bit the inside of her cheek. At the time she’d hardly been able to think, let alone verbally spar with a man as skilled at flirting as Lord Gibb MacGalloway. “Tell me, captain, what would you have done if you’d been me—a woman who had never been courted, who had never been kissed, a woman whose father had sold her hand in matrimony to a stranger twice her age in a faraway land? What would you have done when a handsome, blue-eyed Scottish man wearing a kilt challenged you to an archery contest with the wager being a kiss?”
One corner of his mouth turned up as he hooked his thumb into his belt. “Handsome, did ye say?”
Isabella crossed her arms and began examining the buckles on his shoes—anything not to have to look into those piercing eyes, eyes that so obviously could see into her soul. “Devilishly so.” Dear Lord, had she actually spoken those two words aloud?
He fingered the collar of her pelisse. “Did you shoot poorly on purpose?”
Arms dropping, she coughed out a guffaw. “Never. I am a very good shot, mind you. It just seems you are an astonishing shot.”
“I suppose I wasna quite forthright on that count. Growing up in Martin’s shadow, I did everything possible to best my elder brother, be it archery or muskets. Even as a lad I spent years perfecting the art of the slingshot.”
“Now that I can believe.” Isabella thwacked his elbow. “You knew your wager was won before I fired the first arrow.”
“Let us just say I was confident as to the outcome.” The captain cupped her cheek, the pads of his fingers rough against her skin. “Ye ken if you werena promised in marriage, about now I reckon I’d be begging for another one of your kisses.”
Isabella leaned into him, her lips pursing, her heart racing.
He dipped his chin, but rather than give her the type of bone-melting kiss she wanted, the fiend pressed his warm lips to her forehead, then dropped the ribbon from her hair into her palm. “Goodnight, Miss Harcourt. Sleep well.”