The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 21

21

I sabella awoke to the sound of the surf and seabirds, which she normally would enjoy. However, today the noise made the back of her head throb and her stomach roil. Stretching, she rolled to her side, finding Maribel on her pallet across the tent, still sound asleep. Daylight shone through the canvas, casting rays of light that made her head pound all the more.

What was the time? Isabella never slept late, and nor did Maribel, who was always up at dawn.

“Time to wake,” she said, giving her companion’s shoulder a tap.

Maribel moaned and draped an arm over her head. “I feel as if I drank a flagon of gin.”

Isabella felt the same. She crawled off her pallet to the bowl and splashed some water in her face. “I allowed myself one glass of wine and that was all.”

The maid pushed herself up. “As did I. What did they put in it, I wonder?”

“Our fatigue is most likely from the change of pace. We did a great deal of riding yesterday. I’m sure we’ll feel better after we’ve had a bite to eat.”

Both women had slept in their clothes, and it took little time to tighten their laces and don their boots.

Maribel stepped out of the tent first, her sharp gasp giving Isabella pause. The maid hastened outside. “What?—?”

As Isabella followed, the sight before her robbed the air from her lungs. “Everything is gone.”

“ Everyone is gone.”

The food, the horses, the mules, the brand-new tools she had paid for.

Good glory, she felt so lousy when she awoke that she hadn’t paid much attention to her belongings in the tent—but now that she thought about it, things seemed to be out of place. Isabella dashed back inside, clapped her hands over her mouth, and screamed. Not only had Luis and his band of thieves disappeared with the tools and the animals she and Maribel needed for the journey back to Valencia, the fiends had stolen her money chest.

“Oh, dear God in heaven help us!” said Maribel, stepping beside her. “We have no food, no horses, and no coin.”

Clutching her chest and trying to force herself to breathe, Isabella turned full circle. Not seeing what she was looking for, she pulled away her blankets and bed linens, tossing them onto Maribel’s pallet. “They took my journal, the louts!”

“Truly?” Maribel checked beneath her pallet as well. “What use would a journal written in English be to them?”

“I have no idea, not that anyone would care to read it, especially a band of thieves. Obviously, Luis and those scoundrels couldn’t give a fig about Marcus or antiquity in general.”

Maribel picked up a blanket and looked beneath. “Perhaps they thought it might be of value when they saw you reading it as we were sitting by the fire last eve.”

Isabella smacked her forehead. “Yes, that and I referred to it a number of times. I’ll wager they’ll be searching for treasure after we’re gone.”

After folding the blanket, Maribel picked up a sheet and set to folding it. “And now we know why we slept so late and feel so badly. Those miscreants poisoned us.”

By the swimming of Isabella’s head, she had no doubt her companion was correct. “Thank the stars the poison wasn’t lethal.”

“I knew this trip was a bad idea from the outset. With all due respect, we were better off staying in America—or better yet, remaining on the Prosperity and sailing back to England before you became an heiress.”

Though she heard Maribel’s every word, Isabella turned numb. All her life she’d done what others expected of her. For once, she had taken a risk and chased her dreams. She’d trusted a stranger—a man who seemed quite respectable, but who turned out to be a scoundrel—and now she was not only stranded, she’d brought Maribel into this mess as well.

Dropping back to her haunches, she pressed her head into her hands. “How much water do we have?”

Maribel held up two goatskin bota bags. “Just these, and one’s half-full.”

“Well, those ought to keep us alive until we can make it back to Valencia.”

“On foot?”

“Have you a better idea?”

“But we’ve nothing to eat.”

Isabella spotted the shoulder strap of her satchel beneath her pallet, pulled it out, and looked inside. “At least we have a few coins, and the pistol I purchased in London.”

“If only we’d had our wits when they robbed us, you could have shot the miserable fiends.”

“If only,” she replied, closing the satchel and standing. “Then we mustn’t tarry. The longer we remain here, the longer we’ll have to go without food.”

Archie popped his head into Gibb’s cabin. “Come ashore, Cap’n, and have a wee dram whilst Cookie replenishes supplies.”

Though he had intended to sail for Scotland straight away, the ship’s biscuits not only were full of weevils, a barrel of vinegar had spilled on them and rendered them completely useless. Since the Prosperity’s stores were nearly out of flour and their fresh water was turning green, they’d had no choice but to drop anchor in Valencia. Of course, the cook had asked to bring aboard some additional food stores, as he always did when they moored off a port city. And Gibb rarely argued with him. He liked fresh meat, fruits, and vegetables as much as any man.

Gibb glanced up from his writing desk, quill in hand. “I’d rather stay here.”

“Och, suit yourself. But ye havena long to change your mind. The men are lowering the skiff now. Think on it, Cap’n. Ye canna visit a city in Spain without having a wee dram of orujo.”

“Orujo? If you drink too much of that, you’ll not be able to find the horizon for days.”

Archie thumped his chest. “Ye ken I can hold my liquor with the best of them.”

Gibb placed his pen in the holder. “Aye, ye can fight with the best of them as well.”

“So, are ye coming?”

“Mayhap—just to keep your nose out of trouble, mind you. The last thing I need is to be forced to stay here a day longer whilst pleading with the magistrate for your release from a Spanish jail.”

“Och, I havena been hauled off to the pen for over three years now.”

“Which is exactly why I’m going with you. I’d prefer to keep your streak going.”

A big grin stretched across Archie’s lips as he waggled his ruddy eyebrows. Aye, the man knew if he mentioned orujo, Gibb would opt to come along. Because when it came to sweet and potent liquor, the quartermaster was likely to end up blootered.

Mac and Gowan joined them on deck, and they all used the boatswain’s chair to wench down to the skiff. Within a half-hour, the crewmen had tied the boat to the pier. Gibb checked his pocket watch and turned toward the cook. “An hour?”

Cookie blew a snort through his inordinately large nose. “Sir? Do you speak bloody Spanish?”

Gibb might know a bit of Latin, but his Spanish was limited to a few words. “Two hours. And if you havena returned by then, we’ll set sail without you.”

“I reckon ye’ll all starve on the voyage home.”

Gibb gave the cook a level stare. “Two hours is plenty of time.”

“But hardly enough to enjoy a bottle of orujo,” Archie added, the numpty.

“We’re not drinking an entire bottle of sickly-sweet poison.”

“Is it really poison, sir?” asked Mac, the youngster.

Gibb clapped the first mate on the shoulder. “Aye, at least in the quantities Mr. MacLean consumes.”

With a devious chuckle, Archie headed onward, pointing toward a tavern. “It never fails—there’s always a watering hole at the end of every pier.”

Gibb licked his lips. In truth, he enjoyed a drink as much as any sailor, but his taste was more refined. Whisky was always his first choice, brandy next, and ale also suited him any time of the day or night, especially when the water aboard ship was suspect.

Along the busy road, vendors had their tables set up, selling everything from bread, to fruit, to pre-made shirts and tools. Gibb took an apple and tossed the vendor a coin. “Cookie ought to find everything he needs right here.”

Archie started to cross the street. “Then we’d best make haste?—”

“A moment, lads.” Gibb stopped, something familiar catching his eye. “Come with me.”

“What have ye found?” asked the quartermaster. “Whisky, perchance?”

Without answering, Gibb sauntered toward a man who was holding a shovel. “ Te vendo esta pala a buen precio ,” the man said, holding up a spade.

“No. That.” Gibb pointed to a worn leather volume atop the table. “I want to see the book… libro .”

The vendor shifted the shovel to one hand and held up the journal. “ Esto? ”

Gibb’s knees buckled. God save him, he’d only seen one leather-bound journal embossed with the name Issy, and it belonged to Isabella Harcourt. But her name was most likely Isabella Schuyler by now, and the woman was in America. How in the blazes did the damned book end up in Spain? He snatched it from the man’s hand. “Where did you find this?”

Sputtering a staccato string in incomprehensible Spanish, the man gripped the shovel across his chest, his eyes wide and shifting from side to side.

Gibb tucked the journal under his arm while sliding his fingers over the pommel of his dirk.

“We can take ’em, Cap’n,” Archie growled beside Gibb’s ear.

At the mention of “’em,” Gibb realized nearly a dozen scrappers had moved in behind the bastard, rendering him and his officers greatly outnumbered.

“Gowan, how’s your Spanish?” he asked. Gibb would be more than happy to engage the blackguard in a brawl, but they hadn’t stepped ashore to fight, and who knew how many more Valencians would join in a tussle with a handful of Scots?

“French is better,” replied the boatswain.

Though his blood was thrumming with fire, Gibb figured he’d best make an attempt at civility. “Ask this man if he kens where the woman is.”

Gowan moved beside Gibb’s elbow. “Do you reckon that’s Miss Harcourt’s journal?”

Just to be certain, Gibb looked inside, and on the first page found her notes about the excavation on her father’s property in West Sussex. “It’s hers.”

“Good God,” mumbled Mac.

Gowan stepped forward and engaged in a conversation spoken too fast for Gibb to follow. Regardless, the exchange lasted too long, and by the way the man shrugged, no one needed to speak Spanish to realize he was playing dumb.

“The crew from the skiff have arrived behind us,” Archie mumbled.

Gibb glanced over his shoulder, relieved to find six of his best fighting men. The odds were getting better. He stepped between Gowan and the vendor’s table and looked the man dead in the eyes. “Where. Is. She?”

“He told me he found the journal,” said the boatswain.

Gibb didn’t believe it. “Where?”

“?Donde? ” Gowan asked.

The man launched into another string of rapid Spanish.

Gowan turned his lips toward the captain’s ear and cupped his hand beside it. “He’s trying to say he found the book, but if you ask me, the bastard’s about to soil his breeches.”

“Platja de la Garrofera? ” Gibb asked.

The man’s eyes flashed wide before he backed away.

Dear God, if there was any skullduggery afoot, Gibb would tear the entire pier apart to uncover it.

Gibb upended the table and grabbed the man by the throat to the tune of at least a dozen hissing swords being drawn from their scabbards. “Is. She. Here?”

The point of a cutlass was level with his eyeball. He glanced at the bastard threatening him, then pushed the man holding the shovel toward the attacker. Quickly, Gibb shuffled backward and held up his hands along with Isabella’s journal and glared directly into the lout’s eyes. “I’m keeping this, and if I hear of any lawlessness, I ken where to find you.”

Archie and the men flanked him while the scoundrel backed into a mob of his friends. Slowly, Gibb urged his men away from the upended table. “She’s on the beach. I can feel in in my bones.”

“With Miss Hatch?” Gowan asked, his tone hopeful.

A shiver thrummed across Gibb’s skin. Was she hurt…or worse? “I pray she’s not alone.”

As soon as they had moved far enough away from the skirmish, Gibb gathered his men around him. “Sorry, Archie, but there will be no orujo. Find Cookie and get him back aboard the ship as quickly as possible. Sail the Prosperity down to Platja de la Garrofera and drop anchor off the coast. We’ll meet you there.” He turned to the boatswain and first mate. “Gowan, Mac, come with me.”