Chapter 22
22
I n the shade of a juniper tree, Maribel grasped Isabella’s arm. “Look there, are those riders ahead?”
While shoving the cork stopper into the bota bag, Isabella squinted, seeing nothing but an endless stretch of beach, the sands being blown in clouds out to sea. Above, a handful of seabirds squawked in the sky, their song jeering, as if to say, “Fool, fool, look at the silly fool.” Moreover, this place was uninhabitable, proven by the fact that they had seen nary a traveler in the hours since they’d started out, and now it seemed her companion was on the verge of going mad. “I think you are so hungry you’re seeing things.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but it would surely be nice to be rescued by a gallant knight riding a white horse. I already have dozens of blisters on my feet from these new boots you purchased for me. I might have been better off had I worn my old ones.”
Isabella tugged on her companion’s sleeve. “I’d be happy to be rescued by anyone as long as he isn’t a salacious fiend. And my feet are blistered and sore as well.” She groaned. “I was a dolt to believe the new boots were necessary for an expedition.”
Limping, Maribel fell in step beside her. “I wish we could order them already broken in.”
“Perhaps we ought to invent a line of worn-in boots for ladies. I can see the placard now: Boots for the foolish, nonsensical, dreamy-eyed bluestocking .”
Maribel snorted. “That might be funny if we ever make it home.”
“We will. Mark me, the only regret I have, aside from trusting that scoundrel Luis, is that you have had to suffer so much because of my inexperience.”
“I shudder to think of what might have happened had I not been here.”
“Well, I thank you for being my companion. The execution of your duty has been above and beyond.”
They continued northward, saying nothing for a time as they endured the constant gnawing pain from their blisters and the trudging agony of walking in hot sand to an overture of growling stomachs.
“Will you buy a home when we return to England?” Maribel asked after a time.
“I think that makes the most sense. I need a place of my own that is not hundreds of miles away in the wilderness of America.”
“I agree. Do you think you might settle in West Sussex?”
Isabella bit down her bottom lip. She did have friends in West Sussex, but still hadn’t come to terms with the way Papa had sold her hand in marriage. Even if he needed the coin, he’d been rather clandestine about the whole ordeal—not telling her what he was doing until an agreement with Mr. Schuyler had been reached.
Where do I want to settle?
Most of her childhood friends were married now and had moved away. She knew a few ladies in London who had been fellow wallflowers during her Season—they exchanged letters from time to time. But in all honesty, those women weren’t exactly close friends. Moreover, Isabella didn’t want to live in London. The few weeks she spent there had reminded her of how much she detested the snobbery of the ton .
As well as deceitful, lying sons of dukes who were wealthy enough to buy their own ships.
But as they continued northward, Isabella doubled back on her last thought. She was now wealthy enough to purchase a ship of her own if she so desired. “Mayhap I’ll buy a Scottish castle,” she blurted, having no idea where that notion had come from.
Maribel stumbled over a stick of driftwood and quickly regained her balance. “A drafty old castle?”
Isabella huffed. Of course the maid had to bring logic into the conversation. “Perhaps a little castle?”
“If that is what you want, of course I’ll follow you. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that my parents worked at Durham Castle, and in winter the chambers were forever cold. I think that’s why so many of those old fortresses have been left to ruin.”
Isabella wasn’t fond of icy-cold winters or of fireplaces that sent all the heat upward. “Perhaps a cottage would suit us better? A cottage with an expansive library.”
“A library in a cottage?” Maribel asked, showing no imagination whatsoever.
“A manor, then.”
“Newhailes would be nice. Did you see the duke’s library when we were there?”
Of course Isabella had seen it. She and her father had met with the Duke of Dunscaby in his monumental library—not long before they boarded the Prosperity —and not long before Gibb MacGalloway tricked her into kissing him. “The fiend.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Had Isabella cursed the man aloud? “Never—” She clutched Maribel’s arm. “Oh my heavens, you did see riders!”
“Look there!” The maid clapped her hands and then cringed. “What if they’re not friendly?”
“But what if they are?”
“I say, after our last encounter with the Spaniards, I’m not feeling very lucky.”
Isabella looked back from whence they’d come. The last tree they’d seen was the one that provided them with shade. Now they were surrounded by sand, scrubby bushes, and water with no place to hide.
Maribel pointed to the satchel across Isabella’s shoulder. “The pistol.”
“Oh, right you are.” she agreed, dropping her leather bag on the sand and pulling out the flintlock, along with the powder flask.
“They’ll be here by the time you manage to get it charged.”
Isabella glanced to the items in her hands, realizing she’d never charged a pistol in her life, though she’d seen her father do it. “Are you adept with flintlocks?”
Maribel snorted out a guffaw. “Me? I was raised to be a servant, mind you.”
“Right.” Isabella cocked the hammer. “At least they won’t know if the gun is loaded or not. Now stand behind me.”
“Wonderful. Your Spanish is as good as mine, which amounts to nil.” Maribel threw out her hands and didn’t budge. “I can see the news headlines now: Two lost British women arrested after attempting to steal horses in Spain .”
“But we’re not stealing horses.”
“Are you certain the approaching riders won’t misunderstand our intentions when you point that weapon at them?”
“But you were the one who suggested it in the first place!” Heaving an exasperated huff, Isabella shifted the pistol behind her back. “Perhaps we should ask for help first, though I do wish I had taken Spanish rather than Latin. It would have come in quite handy.”
“Oh, my good glory!” the maid squealed, clapping her hands over her mouth.
“What is it now?”
“’Tis Gowan, Mr. Lyall, and Captain MacGalloway!”
Isabella blinked. Now that the riders had come close enough for her to see their faces, they were definitely not Spanish, and most decidedly were the captain and two of his officers. Her stomach squeezed and somersaulted while several butterflies chose this moment to take flight.
I mustn’t forget that the man left me in America, and when he returned home, he proposed to some woman. I cannot and will not allow myself feelings for Gibb MacGalloway ever again!
But there Isabella stood, dumbfounded while the men headed toward them. She clenched her hand around the pistol’s handle, unable to ignore the relief flooding through her. “What the devil are they doing in Spain?”
As he reined his horse to a stop, Gibb still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Right there on the expanse of deserted beach, Isabella stood like a queen, wisps of black hair whipping in the wind. She held a pistol at her side. Oddly, her expression was not of surprise but of fear…or was it defiance?
Gibb dismounted and stared at the woman while everything else on the beach faded into oblivion. “You’re here,” he muttered —not exactly a long-winded greeting that articulated the relief presently flooding throughout his chest, but it was a start.
As he approached, she took a backward step. “What I don’t understand is why you are here,” she said rather curtly. Quite a curious response from a lass who was obviously stranded and in need of being rescued.
Gibb pulled the journal from the inside of his doublet. “We stopped in Valencia for supplies, and I spotted this wee book on a vendor’s table.”
“My journal!” She shoved the pistol into a satchel and took the book. “I thought it was lost forever.”
“When I got close enough to see your name, I feared you were lost forever. What happened here? How did that man end up with your book? Did something untoward happen in America? Why are you here?”
She gulped, clutching the book to her chest while a tempest brewed behind those fathomless dark eyes.
“A moment.” He held up his palms in surrender. Perhaps he’d been too forward with his outpouring of questions. “Let us take one thing at a time, shall we?”
Isabella nodded. “I-I wanted to do more research about Marcus and Flavia.”
“I see.” Gibb didn’t see anything aside from the fact that she was standing before him in the flesh and looking at him as if he were the one who was a wee bit daft in the head. “And Mr. Schuyler was amenable to sending you to Spain for an expedition…?” Which obviously had failed, and she was left with little more than the satchel across one shoulder and the bota bag across the other. “Did those blackguards ravi—ah…raise a hand against you?”
“I am unharmed, though they took everything including a chest full of coin.”
So, the silver miner did send her off, the bastard. How could a man give his new wife a chest full of money and let her sail to Spain? “And they left you stranded?” Gibb asked, unable to calm the boom of exasperation in his voice.
“Yes, and a bit ill. Maribel and I believe the men we hired must have put something in our wine to make us sleep rather soundly.”
“Good God, you could have been killed. What was your husband thinking allowing you to sail all the way to Spain alone?”
Isabella glanced to Maribel, who stood holding Gowan’s hand, paying no attention to them. “It seems Mr. Schuyler made me a widow shortly after we took our vows.”
Damnation, the man had died? Gibb’s first impulse was to pull her into an embrace, but something told him she wouldn’t want that. Instead, he looked to Mac, who stood dutifully holding the horses. “We ought to go back to Valencia and teach those miscreants a lesson.”
“I’ll reckon they’re long gone by now,” said the first mate.
“Aye,” Gowan agreed. “Besides, we’re already at war with the French. We might lose favor with the Spaniards if we attack.”
“Where is the Prosperity ?” asked Maribel, her voice high-pitched and winsome.
Gibb cast his gaze out to the blue Mediterranean Sea. “Mr. MacLean is sailing her down from Valencia—we ought to see her drop anchor soon.”
“Here?” asked Isabella.
“Aye. This is Marcus’ beach, is it not?”
“This is Platja de la Garrofera, but after we parted ways, I translated another text that made me believe he and Flavia lived farther south—not far from Platja de la Devesa.”
“That sounds more plausible. After scouting about for a few days and finding nothing, I figured Platja de la Garrofera couldna have been the right location, unless Marcus made his living trapping waterfowl in the lagoon.”
Isabella chuckled—a nervous titter filled with apprehension. There were still so many questions to ask, yet by the current of tension darting between them, he was damned if he couldn’t put a one into words.
“Why—” the lass started, but stopped abruptly and bit down on her bottom lip. Evidently Isabella was having difficulty as well.
Gibb arched his eyebrows. “Was there something you wished to ask me?”
“Why are you here?” He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued, “In Spain. Surely you weren’t delivering whisky to Valencia, of all places?”
“No.” He wanted to take her hand. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness, even though he wasn’t quite certain what he needed to be forgiven for. But all his feelings aside, Gibb couldn’t deny her the truth. “I, too, was curious about Marcus and Flavia…” And being on this beach made me feel closer to you . “I thought it might be diverting for the men to do a bit of hunting around to see if we could find some trace of them.”