Chapter 15
15
I sabella did not ask Gibb for another kiss. In fact, she did not indicate that she desired to kiss him again even though he had a strong suspicion that if he pulled the woman into his arms, she wouldn’t reject his advances. No, Miss Harcourt would not have balked as her lips yielded to him.
And heaven knew he wanted to do so much more than kiss. Since that unforgettable joining of the lips nights ago, if he dared to again kiss her, he doubted he’d be able to stop. And he would never, ever ravish the woman. Isabella was pure and chaste, and merely kissing him was the most daring thing she’d ever done in her life.
After the incredibly romantic night when they’d waltzed and kissed, it was as if she had closed off the passion thrumming through her blood and resolved to face her destiny.
As planned, the ship moored in Norfolk, Virginia, where Gibb dispatched a letter to Mr. Schuyler to let the miner know they would arrive in Savannah in five days’ time—two days for the men to offload the barrels of whisky, a day to load the sharecroppers’ wool, and, since the wind was waning, another couple for sailing to Savannah. While they were in Norfolk, Cookie replenished supplies while Archie took the thieving Mr. Briggs ashore and handed him over to the port authorities.
But all too soon, they had weighed anchor and pointed the Prosperity southward.
Regardless of his feelings, Gibb continued to spend a great deal of time with Isabella, helping with her translation work. No, she did not ask for another kiss, but he craved one with his entire being. And it was with every ounce of strength he possessed that he fought his craving. He relied on his training and good sense to constantly remind himself that he had no place in his life for a wife, and this particular woman was promised to another. She would never be his, could never be his.
It was pure torture to sit beside her every evening—and to resist temptation. He sat so close that all he needed to do was capture her dainty chin with the crook of his finger and turn her face just enough to brush his lips over hers. It was pure agony to be so near and yet powerless to pull her into his arms and onto his lap. And the worst torture was to be sitting directly beside a bed and not be able to lay Isabella down, pull the pins from her hair, and watch as those black locks sprawled across the pillow. To never make love to her haunted his dreams. To never tell her exactly how much she had entwined herself into his heart haunted his every waking moment.
Tomorrow they would arrive in Savannah, but tonight Gibb sat watching Isabella as she tilted her journal toward the lantern.
“… I won my fight in the arena yesterday, which is why I am alive and able to take up my quill once again. My opponent was fiercer than any I’ve faced before. His short sword sliced through my armor and cut my side. Though the wound is deep, I told Dominum that I will be well enough to fight three days hence. For if I do, at long last I will earn my freedom. I cannot believe that I will be sailing for home soon and will once again feel your arms surround me. No sword in all of Britannia will be able to prevent me from winning. Wait for me, my love. I am coming to you. ”
Gibb loved listening to Isabella read from her journal, and tonight’s entry brought on an unexpected turn of events. “One more fight and Marcus will be free,” he mused. “It is astonishing that the man survived so long. How many years was he a gladiator in the ludus ?”
She closed her journal and put it aside. “I’m not quite certain. There is the one tablet where he mentions it has been five years since he last saw his son, but heaven knows how long he lived in West Sussex.”
“If he had to fight to earn his freedom, I’ll wager it was years—mayhap ten or more,” Gibb replied, his mind boggling at the number of fights the man must have faced. Even if it was one per month, the odds of Marcus surviving had to be miniscule.
“If we assume that’s correct, Titus could very well have been a grown man by the time Marcus made it home.”
“That is, if he ever arrived home—in this letter he says he has one more fight.”
Isabella’s spine straightened and her eyes grew wider. “But he was so close. He absolutely must have earned his freedom. He pined for Flavia for such an inordinately long time, they deserved to have their happy ending.”
Gibb doubted they’d ever know. There was enough debris from the tablets remaining for several more letters, and Marcus never dated a one. Who knew how often he wrote, or from where he sourced his writing materials? “For your sake, lass, I truly hope they did. History is fraught with a great many unhappy endings, especially for people who are wrongly accused and sold into bondage.”
“I would give anything to go to Valencia and Platja de la Garrofera and hunt around for clues—perhaps find the remains of their farm.”
Gibb flicked the quill’s feather, making it rattle in the holder. “After nearly eighteen hundred years, I reckon finding any trace of Marcus and Flavia would be a miracle.”
“Finding the ruins in West Sussex as well as these tablets was a miracle in itself.”
“True, but you could very likely travel to Valencia and unearth nothing.”
Picking up her tweezers, Isabella tapped one of the fragments and sighed. “At least I can dream.”
“Aye, and dreaming is a good thing. It is what keeps our hearts full of hope.” Gibb stretched and glanced back toward the open door. “I dunna believe it makes sense to start piecing together another tablet tonight. Would you care to take a stroll about the deck?”
“I’d like that.”
As they headed outside, a fierce wind made the door slam open against the inner wall.
“Goodness,” said Isabella, clapping her hands to her hair. “I should have donned a bonnet.”
Gibb firmly pulled the door shut, then tugged one of her hands away from her head and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “I like it better with your head uncovered.”
Together they waved to the night helmsman on the way to the forecastle deck, which Gibb oddly thought of as their place, even though it had always been his place of solace. “Are you afraid of what’s to come?” he asked.
“Not really.” The jib sails flapped loudly along the bowsprit mast, and as she watched them, she shook her head. “No, that isn’t true. I am terrified.”
Gibb’s gut clenched. He could not imagine being in her position. It was almost as abhorrent as Marcus’ situation—at least the part about being betrayed and shipped to a foreign land. “Would you like me to disembark with you?”
Isabella hesitated for a moment, grazing her teeth over her bottom lip. “Would you?”
“I think it is the least I can do. Though first impressions are not always precise, I can learn a fair bit about a man’s character by looking him in the eye.”
“And what will you do if you believe him to be a blackguard of the highest order?”
The first thing that popped into Gibb’s mind nearly made him laugh. “I reckon I might challenge him to an archery contest.”
With a burst of laughter, she thwacked his shoulder. “You are awful.”
“Not awful, just careful with my wagers.” Gibb reached into his sporran and pulled out a leather pouch. “I wanted you to have this.”
“What is it?” she asked, sliding it from his grasp.
“Something to remind you of this journey as well as show you the way home—wherever your home may be.”
She slid the compass out of the pouch and turned until it was pointing northeast—in the general direction of England. “Is this yours?”
“Aye, but I have another.” Gibb tapped the glass. “The gift of a compass symbolizes safety, protection, and God’s speed for your journey.”
Tracing her finger along the needle’s direction, Isabella sighed. “It is perfect.”
“I hope you realize that you will always have my protection should you ever have a need of it.”
The moonlight shimmered with the wind and reflected in her eyes as she looked up and smiled. “If you ever should venture back to Savannah?”
“One letter from you and I’ll come with my guns a-blazing, madam.”
The bonny lass threw back her head and laughed, making a pin fall from her coiffeur. A lock escaped and whipped with a gust. “Oh dear, my hair!”
“Nay,” he said, urging her to pull her hand away. “I want to see it down. May I?”
Her gaze darted astern. “What will the men think? They’ll see me looking disheveled when I return to my cabin and think the worst.”
He plucked another pin. “I’ll put it back up again.”
“You?”
He gave a shrug. “I reckon I can wield a few hairpins well enough. At least I can make it sufficiently presentable for you to walk back to your cabin without drawing undue speculation.”
“Very well.” On a sigh, Isabella turned and presented her chignon. “It’s awfully thick and unruly.”
He pulled out three pins, watching the cascade of black come alive with the wind. “’Tis magnificent.” Gibb took out the remaining pins and threaded his fingers through the long mane of black silk. “Your hair is so bonny it is a shame you must wear it up.”
She strode to the point of the prow and spread her arms wide. “With it down, I feel wild as the sea.”
Isabella had no need to glance over her shoulder. By the warmth spreading across her back, she knew Gibb had moved behind her. When, to her thrill, he placed his hands on her waist, a shiver coursed through her body.
“Climb onto the ropes,” he whispered.
Isabella looked to the rigging, dangerously suspended out over the water. “No, no, I cannot.”
“We shall do it together.”
“What if we fall?”
“I will never allow you to fall, lass.” He reached around her and grasped one of the dozens of taut ropes. “Follow my lead.”
She wiped the perspiration from her palm by rubbing it on her skirts before she gripped the rope, her fist just in front of his. Upward they went, holding on to the ropes with their hands and scaling them with their feet.
“Here,” he said, stopping. “What do you see?”
Isabella had been so focused on watching Gibb’s hands and feet that she hadn’t looked anywhere except at the rigging. As her gaze shifted, a heavy stone instantly dropped to the pit of her stomach. “Ack!” she screeched as his arm slid around her waist.
“Dunna let go,” he growled in her ear. “Breathe with me. In, two, three, and out, two, three. In, two, three, out, two, three.”
As she heeded his whispered commands, her tension began to ease.
“What do you feel?” he asked.
She dared to again glance downward to the abyss of the black sea, the glow of white foam breaking on the ship’s bow. If she were to fall now, she’d be dragged beneath the hull and undoubtedly meet her end. “I-I feel as if I am cheating death,” she confessed, even though she knew Gibb’s arm was securely around her waist.
“Aye, lass. Up here, you are at your own mercy. A sailor experiences this fear every time he climbs the rigging. When at sea, repairs must be made, and they’re not for the weak-hearted. Up here you must rely on your own strength and the knowledge that you alone are in control of your destiny.”
Isabella watched the water break against the bow and gulped. “I think I prefer it when my feet are on the deck.”
“Do you?” he asked, not sounding convinced. “Remember when we were here not all that long ago and you felt as if you were flying?”
“Yes.”
“Close your eyes just for a moment.”
She wasn’t certain she wanted to do anything but climb down as fast as possible.
“Are they closed?” he asked.
Bless it, if she didn’t humor him now, she’d always wonder what he would have done. Nodding, she did as asked.
Gibb’s lips nuzzled her ear. “Imagine yourself riding a horse. You ken how to ride a horse, do you not?”
“I do. Sidesaddle.”
“You cue him for a trot.” As she imagined it, Gibb gripped her waist tightly and posted with her. “That’s it, we’re on a country road and the wind is freely blowing through your hair, taking it aloft like the flag at the top of the main mast.”
Isabella hadn’t even thought about her hair, but it was sailing, the wind whipping through it and strong against her face.
Gibb’s motion changed. “And now we’re picking up a canter, going faster and faster. Are you with me, lass?”
Isabella’s heart thrummed. “Faster!”
He pressed his chest against her back, urging her to lean forward. “Our horse’s nostrils are flaring and he’s pulling on the bit. The stretch ahead is wide open and he wants his head. Are we going to give it to him?”
“Yes!” She leaned farther forward. “Let him gallop!”
“He’s off and racing, so fast his hooves have left the ground, and now we are upon a cloud, sailing out to sea!”
“We are a shooting star!”
“You are!” he shouted, his arm slightly easing from her waist. “Now open your eyes and experience what it feels like to be Titan in command of the seas.”
Isabella opened her eyes, and the sight of the black sea before her stopped her breath, making her fists clench around the ropes. “Don’t let go!”
“I have you,” he growled. “But more so, you have yourself. You are in control of your destiny. No matter where you are or what you do, you make your own decisions and you are capable of anything, even flying into an abyss suspended over the bow of a ship.”
With his words, Isabella completely handed her trust over to him. With her feet balanced on the ropes, she leaned against Gibb’s powerful chest and released her grip. Her heart nearly burst while tears streamed down her cheeks.
On the morrow she would walk away from this man—a man who made a wallflower feel beautiful and showed her how to command the waves as if she were the queen of the universe. Though this man held the esteemed position of captain, he’d spent hour upon hour at Isabella’s side helping her to translate her priceless tablets. Yes, at first she had considered him a rake, but now she knew better. This Scot was passionate and giving and thoughtful. He cared about his crew, and a little boy who had been orphaned by the war.
“Where are you now?” Gibb whispered, his breath skimming her ear.
Madly, deeply, and passionately in love with you.
But Isabella couldn’t utter the truth aloud. Gibb MacGalloway had told her he was a man of the sea and would never take a wife. Her father was depending on her to perform her duty, else his later years might be fraught with poverty. She had no place to go, and no one to turn to except Mr. Schuyler, who had paid dearly to have an English gentlewoman as his bride.
“I am off the coast of Georgia, not far from Savannah, and on the morrow I will begin a new chapter in my life,” she replied, no longer terrified, but now ready to face her lot.
The man behind her stiffened. He said nothing for a time, though the air grew charged as if stretched as tightly as the Prosperity’s rigging. “What if?—”
“Shh!” She’d had a monumental revelation and would stand by it. “I have just experienced the most exhilarating moment of my life, and there can be no ‘what ifs.’”
Isabella turned her head and looked into his eyes. “Thank you, but I am ready to climb down now.”
Once their feet were securely on the timbers, Gibb gripped her hand and kissed it. “Ye ken you are promised to a stranger.”
“Promised to the only man who has ever made a proposal of marriage to me.” Though Gibb’s mouth twisted, she silenced him by tapping her pointer finger to his lips. She didn’t want to force him to make an offer of marriage, and neither did she want him to feel cornered into doing so. “Come the morrow, Mr. Schuyler will no longer be a stranger.”
Isabella pulled her hair to the side and twisted it into a rope, then wound it around, making a bun. “May I have my pins, please?”
Gibb didn’t try to take over, he simply held out the hairpins and let her do it. When she was finished, she stepped back and patted her coiffeur. “How do I look?”
“Ravishing.”
He was exaggerating, of course. Isabella might have corrected him by saying “passable,” except he’d argue. Instead, she stood straight and tall while their gazes locked in an unspoken moment of utter longing. Then she turned and swiftly strode back to her cabin.
Walking away from Captain Gibb MacGalloway was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life.