Chapter 13
13
G ibb spent the next two days on deck, barking orders like an obnoxious troll. Duncan even tucked tail and sought refuge in the crow’s nest. Though Gibb had sent the lad up there, he must have filled his pockets with ship’s biscuits, because he hadn’t come down for hours.
He wasn’t angry with Duncan, nor had he been angry with Miss Harcourt, but the fact that she hadn’t joined him for the past two dinners set him even further on edge. Yes, he had snarled at her, but she spoke of things beyond her understanding. Nonetheless, whether he was in the right or she was in the wrong didn’t make him feel any better. He’d never admit it to a soul, but whenever he barked at anyone he felt like a damned heel—doubly so when it came to revealing his testy side to a woman.
And now regret had a hold of his gut with the gripping force of an iron vise.
No matter how anyone tried to rationalize it, Gibb would never forgive himself for Farley Lamont’s death, full stop. Before the battle began, he’d found the petty officer holding his head in his hands. When Gibb pressed him for an explanation, Farley bared his soul and admitted to the recent loss of his wife and his concern for the son left behind in Edinburgh. That was when Gibb swore an oath to himself to keep Farley out of danger—he’d even gone so far as to lock him in his cabin. At least, Gibb thought he’d done so, but the blasted sailor found the spare key in Gibb’s writing desk and let himself out.
I should have taken both keys.
But Farley was gone, and the only thing Gibb could do about it was to ensure Duncan received an education and landed on his feet. If the lad wanted to attend university, Gibb would see to it he succeeded. Once Duncan was of age, no matter what he decided he wanted to do with his life, Gibb would help him. But for the time being, he was raising the boy for a life at sea—except not a life in the navy. Duncan might decide to be a seaman, but he’d fare better if he remained on a merchant ship—mayhap one day he’d captain a ship in the MacGalloway fleet. He deserved as much.
Archie nudged Gibb away from the helm and took over. “Och, ye’ve been skulking about the deck for long enough. I reckon it is high time ye go on and apologize.”
After hours of gripping the wheel, Gibb rubbed the stiffness out of his hands while he leered at the quartermaster’s craggy face. “I beg your pardon? What the devil are you on about?”
“I ken you were helping Miss Harcourt with her Roman tablets. Miss Hume told Gowan the pair of you worked together like a couple of honeybees, and then it stopped a few nights back…about the same time you turned into an ogre.” Archie set his gaze on the horizon. “And now Miss Harcourt has all but made herself invisible. She hasna even come to dinner, and all the while ye’ve been bellyachin’ like a sore-headed bull.”
Gibb scowled. “Watch your bloody tongue.”
“Aye? Someone has to give ye a kick in the arse, and the only person aboard who you’ll listen to is me, though I wonder about that at times.”
“What do you ken of the details from our wee rift? I’ll wager you reckon it’s all my fault, do ye not?”
“Aye. Isna it always? Just like when you saved the captain and turned around to find Farley smote by one of Napoleon’s bastards. You blame your beefy-arsed self.”
Gibb clenched his fists. “Farley’s death is my damned fault.”
Archie’s nostrils flared. “Of course it is, on account of ye bein’ the Almighty.”
With a growl, Gibb removed his bicorn hat and raked his fingers through his hair. If he didn’t take charge of the conversation now, he’d likely come to blows with the miserable cur. “We’re nearly to Virginia. We’ll be saying goodbye to the lassies soon.”
Archie grinned, his teeth crooked and yellow. “All the more reason to make amends.”
“Why would you care?”
“Because she’s a nice lady and deserves to remember us fondly.”
“Aye, whilst she rides off into the sunset with her groom,” Gibb grumbled, shoving his hat atop his head.
“With her old groom. Ye ken he’s over twice her age?”
Gibb nodded. Sometime during their work on the tablets, Miss Harcourt had mentioned something about Mr. Schuyler being older, but never said how old. “Tell you, did she?”
“Heard it from Gowan.”
It was no secret that the lady’s maid had been keeping company with the first mate, and Maribel knew everything of import about Miss Harcourt. “That lad is going to pine for Miss Hume something awful.”
“He’ll get over it. He always does.”
Gibb smirked. Gowan, like most young sailors, fell in love as often as possible, then made himself miserable with yearning until he found a new wench in the next port. “Well, since you’re tending the helm, I might have a word with Cookie—make certain he serves us something palatable this eve.”
Archie nodded. “Then will you also ask Miss Harcourt to join us?”
“I might.” Gibb gave the wheel a rap. “Och, you have a soft spot for the lass, do you?”
“Aye, as does every other man aboard this ship, especially you.”
Gibb had heard enough. As he walked toward the bow, over his shoulder he signaled the quartermaster with an indecent finger, the one described by the Romans as digitus impudicus . Though Archie was the only man aboard the Prosperity who could pester him without fear of retribution, the bastard was close to crossing the line.
As Gibb traversed the deck, the wind seemed to catch his foul mood and blow it out to sea. Perhaps the change in his disposition was because it wasn’t as hot today. Perhaps something else had released a valve within his chest.
Gibb didn’t care. He was just glad that the anger and melancholy had taken a rest for the time being. “Cookie!” he bellowed, climbing down the steep steps.
The big fellow popped his head out the galley, wiping his two-fingered hand on his apron. “Aye, Cap’n?”
“Have you a couple of nice roasted chickens for tonight’s dinner?”
The cook glanced to the pot of stew boiling on the hob. “I reckon there’s enough time to prepare a pair if that’ll meet with your fancy. Ye could be dining a wee bit late, though.”
“Fair enough. What about dessert? Do you have something unique stowed away in the larder?”
“Ye mean something to appease an unhappy lassie?”
“Good God, does everyone aboard this ship ken I had a wee quarrel with Miss Harcourt?”
“Aye.” Cookie pulled the string of the larder key from beneath his shirt. “Except the tale is it wasna so much of a quarrel as a scolding.”
“Wheest your gob.” Gibb thrust his upturned palm toward the storeroom door. “Do you have a treat or nay?”
“I’ve a tin of Christmas pudding I’ve been saving—swimming in rum. Added currants, dates, and nuts as well.”
“Plenty of sugar?”
“Aye, plenty—just the thing for an apology.”
Gibb snorted. He could wager not one of the men on board kent what he and Miss Harcourt had disagreed about, yet it seemed they all believed him to be the guilty party. Regardless, he had asked for the damned dessert, and it was, indeed, intended to make amends. Since his mood was decidedly improving, he let Cookie’s remark go. “If it is verra sweet, then I reckon your Christmas pudding will do nicely—but we’ll call it holiday pudding, since it is August.”
“Are ye certain ye dunna want to save it for the lassie’s last night?”
“Nay. Ye ken we’ll be dropping anchor in Norfolk afore we reach Savannah. Replenish your supplies and make something tasty sweet for the entire crew to enjoy.”
With that tidbit of business accomplished, Gibb took a route where Archie wouldn’t gloat, and made his way across the mizzen deck and up to the cabins. Miss Harcourt’s door was slightly ajar, though not propped wide open as she usually set it before their spat.
He stood unmoving for a moment, watching her work. The woman was so incredibly feminine, her every move graceful. How he had possibly thought her plain when he first came across her in the park, he had no idea. From the soft curls pinned on her head, to her slender shoulders, tapering to an exquisite waist, everything about her was womanly and alluring.
She held her tweezers aloft, looking from one box of fragments to the next, pulling out a bit, shaking her head, and putting it back.
“How go the translations?” he asked, crossing his ankles and leaning against the doorjamb.
The tweezers fell from Isabella’s fingers and clattered to the floor. “Captain?” She turned in her seat.
Before the lady could bend forward, Gibb hastened inside and picked up the tweezers. He bowed and presented them to her. “I believe you dropped these, madam.”
She slid the tool from his grasp, soft fingers brushing his ever so lightly, but the touch was enough to make his knees grow wobbly. “Thank you,” she said rather curtly, and definitely without a smile.
Remembering his manners, Gibb removed his hat and tucked it under his arm, resisting the urge to comb his fingers through his hair as he usually did. “How are the translations coming?” he asked again.
Miss Harcourt returned her attention to the tablets. “Fine.”
At her single-word answer, he looked to the crossbeams in the ceiling above. She wasn’t going to make this easy. Bless it, he might have been short with her, but he also felt strongly about everything he’d said. Gibb did blame himself for Farley’s death, and no matter who tried to tell him he was wrong, it didn’t make a lick of difference to his bedamned heart. “I…ah…came to say…ah…something.”
“Is that so?” she replied, her tone quite sardonic.
He huffed a sigh. He most likely deserved her ire. “The other night, I dinna mean to hurt you. As you might realize, the Battle of Lissa is a verra tender subject with me—one I dunna care to discuss overmuch.”
Miss Harcourt picked up a fragment and moved it to the tablet she was reconstructing. “My father fought in the wars, and he, too, is unable to talk about it. Though I do not believe…”
Gibb didn’t ask her to finish her sentence. He knew what she was going to say, or near enough, and hearing it might turn his mood sour again, which he definitely could do without. “Och, I’m making a muddle of this.” He took her hand between his palms. “I am sorry for being an overbearing brute. It was unforgivable of me to bark at a woman who is a guest upon my ship, and I am truly embarrassed by my outburst. I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
For the first time since he entered the lady’s cabin, those black eyes shifted upward and met his gaze. Within a heartbeat, a thrill of yearning pulsed through his blood. Isabella eased her hand out from between his palms while the corners of her lips turned up slightly. “Thank you. I’ll wager that wasn’t an easy apology to make.”
“No, but it was necessary.” He rolled his shoulders with a deep inhalation to cool his unbidden lust, then gestured to the empty chair. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest.” She pointed to a framed tablet that hadn’t been there before. “Were you aware that you had found our author’s name before you left?”
Gibb took note of the name, shook his head, and blinked. “I did?” he asked. While they were discussing Duncan and the battle, he had found a string of fragments that fit perfectly but hadn’t bothered to stop debating and take the time to translate.
She nudged his arm, making him gasp while tingles spread across his body. “After you left, everything came together as if by magic. Read the whole passage.”
The room grew quiet while Gibb leaned over the tablet. “My word, Marcus was a centurion.”
“Mm-hmm, then he was betrayed and sent to Britannia, where he was sold into slavery.”
“And he ended up in a ludus . Is he a gladiator?”
“Yes, I do believe so.” She took a fragment and aligned it with her current work. “I say, it is getting easier to find pieces that fit. I’m nearly finished with this one as well. The last bit is from a couple of the larger pieces—though I’m afraid the ink is quite faded.”
Gibb leaned toward her, inhaling the scent of lavender and something sweet he couldn’t put his finger on. Perhaps honey? “What does it say?”
“Like many, it begins with a salutation to his dear Flavia.” Isabella referred to her journal. “ There is but day upon day of misery in this ludus. During the reenactment of the battle of Silva Arsia, the only two men I trusted in this vile place were sent to the underworld. I fear my time is coming near, for my sword is heavy and my armor worn. How I long to hold you in my arms once again before I… ”
Miss Harcourt stopped and pointed. “This is where I cannot make out the writing. I’m sure I have the pieces in place, but the ink is too faint. The remainder of it reads as follows: I long to wait for you beside the statue of Mars. I long to see your smile as I wrap you in my embrace. ”
Gibb leaned in and squinted at the faint passage. “I canna make it out either, but given the fact that Marcus has said he believes his time is short, I think we can assume he’s saying that he wants to hold her in his arms again before he dies.”
“I assumed the same as well, though there is too much space in the passage for a single word like moritur .”
“Aye, though it could say, occurrit mihi finis . ‘Meet my end’ would fit, I’d reckon.”
Nodding, she bit down on her lip. “Perhaps you are right.”
“Well, why not assume so, at least until you have an opportunity to consult with an antiquarian who specializes in Roman texts?”
“After the unpleasant exchanges I had with the chap in West Sussex, I think I’d rather find a linguist who can verify my translations.”
“Smart of you.” Gibb picked up his tweezers, realizing she hadn’t moved them. Neither had she moved the chair he’d been using. “I wonder where Marcus was raised. He must have come from a high-ranking family if he was a centurion.”
“I’m glad you asked.” She gave him a grin that made his heart sing. “I believe I have pieced together the beginning of another tablet where he says he longs to see the shores of Valentia again. I think that is a very telling clue that his home must be coastal. In addition, I also found the words Platja de la Garrofera .”
“ Platja means beach—’tis Catalan,” he said.
“Yes, I am well aware.”
Gibb grasped Miss Harcourt by the hand. “We have two very strong clues, and I have rolls of world maps in my cabin. I reckon we ought to be able to pinpoint Marcus’ origins.”
In an effort to tamp down her excitement, Isabella clasped her hands and watched while Captain MacGalloway sifted through his maps like a lad on Christmas morn. His exuberance made her want to dance a jig, but she squeezed her fingers and did her best not to appear too happy. After all, she mustn’t forget that he’d shown his temper when she questioned him about Duncan’s father.
Thank heavens he had apologized. For the past few days, she’d been racking her brain trying to figure out how to approach him without appearing to yield. She had stood her ground because she didn’t care to be shouted at when she was only trying to be cordial. Hopefully he’d understand that she wouldn’t tolerate such boorishness in the future.
Except they had no future. She pressed her hands against the sudden sinking in the pit of her stomach.
“Here we are,” he said, unrolling a map atop his writing table. “This is of southwestern Europe.”
Together they bent over and studied the map. “Have you heard of a town named Valentia ?” she asked, her mind boggling at the sheer number of seaside villages and cities that were part of the empire during Hadrian’s reign.
“No, but we’re talking about ancient Rome. The name could very well be something different now.”
“Oh, that makes this task easier,” she said sardonically while reading the names of the Italian coastal cities.
“Think about the tablets you have already translated. What do you ken thus far?”
“Well…” She drummed her fingers atop the map. “We do know he mentioned Platja de la Garrofera . He also fought the Aquitanians —which I believe would be part of France now, so it is highly unlikely that he was from the northern Roman territories, especially given the seaside element.”
“Wait a moment.” The captain moved to his bookcase and ran his finger along the spines. “Here it is. I’d almost forgotten about this old text.”
He pulled an enormous leather-bound volume from the shelf and opened it atop the map. “My father employed a Mr. Ramsey as my tutor of languages. When I showed an aptitude for Latin, he gave this to me. ’Tis a history of the Roman Empire.” He thumbed through the pages. “If my memory serves, there are a few maps showing the empire’s borders through the ages.”
He stopped at the first one, giving her a chance to lean in and take note of the date. “No, this one’s from 555 BC, far too early.”
“I reckon we’ll find a map from Anno Domini near the back. After all, the Roman Empire fell two or three centuries after Hadrian.”
Isabella anxiously watched him thumb through the pages. “I believe by the time Hadrian was emperor, the Romans weren’t as bent on conquering as they were on preserving what they had. After all, Hadrian built a wall to keep out the barbarians, not to allow more in.”
“Och, those barbarians to whom you are referring would be my ancestors, mind ye.”
“Yes, and they were known to be the fiercest fighters in all the lands—unconquerable. You ought to be proud.”
“I am, and that is why I employ fine Scotsmen to man my ship.” He turned the last page and jammed his finger atop the book. “This map is more like it. ’Tis of 117 AD.”
“That’s the year Trajan died.”
“Is it?” he asked.
The first thing Isabella saw was the Atlantic. “Heavens, I never noticed it before, but the Romans called this very ocean Oceanus Atlanticus .”
“Some things never change.” The captain leaned over the map. “Look here— Valentia is on the eastern shore of Hispania between Saguntum and Dianium Ebusus .”
“I guarantee you we will not find Dianium Ebusus on a nineteenth-century map.”
“I wager you are right. But now we ken where Valentia is.” He moved the book aside, giving them a clear view of eastern Spain.
The captain placed his finger on the unmistakable promontory of land that was named Dianium Ebusus on the ancient map. “Aha. It is now Xàbia.”
“Yes, but look up there.” Isabella used the feather end of his quill to point. “That’s the city Marcus referred to—Valencia—only a slight difference in spelling! And Platja de la Garrofera is just south.”
“At least the beach’s name is unchanged. And look there—to the north is Port de Sagunt. It is too similar not to be adapted from the Roman town of Saguntum .”
Isabella clapped her hands over her mouth and moved to the windows. “Oh, if only we were sailing through the Mediterranean Sea and not across the Atlantic. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve dreamed about Marcus and Flavia? If only I could go to Platja de la Garrofera and see if any ruins remain of their farm—of their villa—of the statue of Mars.”
The captain moved in behind her. “It would be an adventure of a lifetime for certain,” he said, his breath skimming the back of her neck.
Closing her eyes, Isabella reveled in his nearness, wanting him to touch her. “But I don’t even know if I’ll ever see West Sussex or Britain again, let alone take a voyage to Spain.”
A sigh escaped her lips as he slipped his hands on her waist, his fingers sliding into place as if they belonged there. “None of us ken where we’ll be tomorrow or a year hence, or ten years from now. But that doesna mean we canna dream. If you truly desire to go to find Marcus’ Valentia , then wish it, mo leannan .”
As Isabella opened her eyes, she watched the wake foam behind the Prosperity and made her wish just when Gibb pressed his lips into the arc of her neck. She nearly swooned as the intimate caress imparted so much more than a kiss. How in all of creation could a man convey so much emotion by kissing a woman’s neck? Unable to help herself, she dropped her head against his chest while he trailed those kisses along her shoulder.
“ Mo leannan —it is Gaelic, is it not?” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said, his lips returning to her nape and rendering her helpless to flee.
“What does it mean?” she asked, breathless.
Behind her, Isabella sensed the captain stiffen. “I should not have uttered it.”
“The words sounded beautiful.”
“My thanks.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and urged her to turn and face him. “Will you please join us for dinner this eve? Cookie has a surprise dessert for you.”
“ Cookie does?” she asked, a tad disappointed.
“Well, if you must know, I asked him if he had something that might help raise your spirits, and he had just the thing tucked away in the larder.”
Somehow knowing that the captain had inquired on her behalf made her feel as if she were floating inside a bubble. “Then I shall be delighted to join you.”
“Excellent.” Together they walked toward the door. “We ought to be arriving in Virginia on the morrow.”
He could have said anything else without destroying the moment, but reminding Isabella that their voyage was about to come to an end took her bubble and violently popped it. “Oh dear.”
“Are you nervous about reaching America?”
Cringing, her gaze meandered upward until she met his beautiful blue eyes. “Terrified.”