Chapter Six
“MY DAUGHTER, she’s made of strong mettle, that one. Never known a woman like her. No’ even her mother, God rest her soul.”
She was a fool, and Aulay was on the verge of suggesting the old man was demented, but the door flung open and men began to stream into the room, led by the giant—the same one that had knocked the life from Aulay—who had to duck his head to enter.
Two others followed him. They walked past Aulay without so much as a glance.
He wanted some explanation about who these people were, why they were crammed into his cabin, and what the bloody hell was wrong with the big one.
He reminded Aulay of a bairn in a man’s body.
He was rocking back and forth on his heels and moaning as he stared down at the man on the bed.
The younger one stood with his back to the wall, his legs braced apart, his jaw set, as if he was determined not to show the least bit of emotion.
Aulay recognized himself in the younger one—he’d been that lad many years ago.
He had two warrior brothers who had commanded their father’s attention and respect with their physical prowess.
He had two sisters who’d been the jewels of his father’s eye.
And he, third of five, had gone unnoticed unless he was behind the wheel of a ship.
It was strange to think of it now, but at that age, Aulay had struggled to find the attention and praise in his family or clan.
He was the quiet one, the studious one, the lad who pursued painting.
It was hard to be noticed by the others, and he’d felt entirely inconsequential in the world except when he was at sea.
The third man in his cabin, of middling age, was a physician or healer of some sort. He examined the old man’s wound.
The old man wanted a report of all that had gone on since they’d come aboard.
The lad attempted to report, but the giant kept speaking over him, expressing his vociferous and sincere desire to go home.
But when the physician removed the bandaging from the old man, the giant began a keening cry that startled Aulay. ..and no one else.
Moments later, the lass returned. The giant called her name, and she went to him, putting her arms around him, holding him close like a mother would hold a child.
“Drustan lad, calm yourself,” the injured man said, and groped for the giant’s hand as the healer finished removing the bandages from his torso. “It’s no’ but a bad gash, aye?”
Lottie leaned over the physician. Whatever she saw caused her to gasp aloud.
“Aye, what is it, then?” her father asked.
“What? Nothing!” she said, fooling no one.
“Now, now, donna the lot of you fret,” the old man said. “A wound always looks worse than it is. Is that no’ so, Morven.”
“That is no’ so,” the physician said.
“You know verra well what I mean,” said the old man. “Look at your long faces! I’ll be right as rain!” he said irritably. “Why, I scarcely feel a thing, thanks be to the captain’s fine brandy.”
Aulay suppressed a groan. That was expensive French brandy, the last of what he and his brother Cailean had smuggled into Balhaire a few years ago.
“Have you any more of it?” the healer asked.
“Aye, there’s a good lad, Mats, hand him the bottle.”
“I’ll need fresh water as well,” the physician said, and Lottie went at once to the sideboard to fetch it, returning with the ewer.
The physician poured water directly into the brandy bottle—so much that there would be no salvaging the brandy. He shook the bottle to mix the contents, then put his hand on the injured man’s leg. “Steady yourself, Bernt,” he said, and poured the diluted brandy onto the wound.
The old man howled with pain, which startled the giant, and he, in turn, shrieked like a banshee. When he did, the youngest of them threw his hands over his ears. “By all that is holy, Drustan, donna do that!” he shouted. “It hurts me bloody ears!”
“I’ve made a sleeping broth,” the physician said, nonplussed by all the shouting and screeching. “It ought to keep you from this world for a few hours, Bernt. You need to sleep, aye?”
“What if he dies?” the giant asked tearfully.
“I willna die,” the old man said sternly. “A small wound canna kill a Livingstone, lad.”
“We’ll need a clean bandage,” the physician said. All of them looked at Lottie.
“Aye,” she said, and without the slightest compunction, went to the cupboard beneath the sideboard and removed one of Aulay’s shirts.
“I beg your pardon—wait,” Aulay said, but of course she paid him no heed, and handed the shirt to the physician. He tore the shirt into strips, then employed the two younger men to help him bind the old man’s abdominal wound.
When the bandaging was done, the physician picked up a bowl. “This is the sleeping draught.” He held it up like a vicar would hold a cup of wine at communion.
“Aye, let’s have it, then,” said her father. “I’ve got an awful pain, that I do.”
Lottie lifted his head and the physician helped him drink from the bowl.
“All right, then, lads,” her father said with a sigh when he’d finished. “You heard Morven—I’m to sleep now. Do as Lottie says, aye? But go now, let your old father rest. I’ll be good as new when we reach Aalborg.”
“I donna like to be here,” the giant said to no one in particular. “I want to go home to Lismore.”
“We’ll be there soon enough, lad,” the physician said, but Aulay saw the man exchange a look with Lottie. He doubted his own words.
Lottie kissed first the giant, then the younger one. “Mind you do as Duff or Mr. MacLean tells you,” she said to them. “If they donna need you, find a place to sleep. We’ve a long voyage ahead of us and I’ll have you rested, aye?”
“But what of you, Lot?” the youngest one asked.
“I’ll stay here, with Fader.”
The young man glanced at Aulay and frowned. “What of him?”
All heads turned toward him. “We’ve no other place to put him,” Lottie said with a shrug.
“I donna like to be here,” the giant said again.
“Aye, I know,” she said soothingly, and rubbed his arm. “None of us do.”
“I do,” the younger one said as he bumped into a chair on his way out. “This is a bigger ship than Gilroy’s, and it’s much faster. I should like to be captain of this ship one day.”
“That post has been taken,” Aulay reminded the lad as he reached the door.
The young man shot him a wide-eyed look and disappeared out the door.
“Keep an eye on your brother!” Lottie called after them as the giant followed.
“I always keep an eye,” Aulay heard the younger one say in a tone that suggested he believed he was very much put upon.
“He ought to sleep like the bloody dead for a few hours,” the physician said as he went out. He paused to look at Lottie. “You look like death, lass.”
“Thank you,” she said, and pushed wet hair from her face.
“Is there no place you might sleep, then?”
“I’ll sleep here,” she said.
The physician looked at Aulay.
“He’ll no’ disturb me,” she said before the physician could remark. “He can do no harm, bound up as he is.”
“Well,” the physician said, then shrugged and went out. “God nat,” he said, wishing her a good night, and went out.
“God nat,” she answered, and closed the door behind him.
Her expression instantly crumbled into exhaustion. She sighed wearily and turned her back to the door. She unbuttoned his greatcoat, shook it off, and returned it to its peg. She stood in her stays and chemise and a petticoat that was soiled at the hem and soaking wet.
She looked even smaller than before, her shoulders stooped, as if the events of the day had worn her down.
The lass reached for her gown, laying her hand on it in several places, but apparently found it too damp.
She walked to the bed and picked up a blanket that lay at the foot, and threw it around her shoulders.
She paused to lean over her father and stroke his brow.
“Aye, he’s sleeping well now,” she said wearily.
“I would that the same could be true for me.” Aulay had the impression she was speaking to herself.
She moved away from the bunk and wandered to the far wall, studying the two seascapes that hung there.
She touched one with her forefinger, tracing over the ridges in the paint.
“The sea is so blue in this one,” she said wistfully.
“I should like to see water so blue one day.”
That was unlikely, given the fate that awaited her.
“Where is it?” she asked.
Aulay looked at the painting. His talents did not adequately capture how blue the water was at Cadiz. “Spain,” he said. “The Mediterranean Sea.”
“Mediterranean,” she murmured, as if testing the word. She dropped her hand. “I must take advantage of your hospitality again, Captain.”
“Hospitality? You confuse captivity with hospitality. What now?”
She opened the cupboard below the sideboard and dipped down.
“If it’s more brandy you want, you’ll no’ find it,” he said with an edge of irritation.
But it wasn’t brandy she was after. She removed one of his shirts. And then a pair of trews. “I’m sorry for it,” she said ruefully. “But I’m chilled to the bone and I desperately need dry clothes.”
She took the blanket from her shoulders and draped it over her chair, then kicked off her wet boots.
One slid along the cabin floor and reached the door.
She put her pistol on the table, then put one foot in a leg of the trews and then the other; she struggled to pull them up beneath her petticoat without revealing any part of herself to him.
When she had them secure, she removed the petticoat.
Aulay couldn’t help but ogle her. The trews were too big for her smaller frame, and yet he could still see her figure, could still visually trace the shape of her legs into a heart-shaped bottom. He could still feel the rumblings of physical desire for this wee thief.
She glanced at him and frowned. “What, then?” she asked impatiently.