While You Were Sailing (McQuoid Family Saga #1)

Chapter 1

The Border Between England and Scotland

With the fat snowflakes fast falling, Miss Lucy LeBeau—owner of The Spotted Elk inn—stared out the small, frosted, deep-set windows at the cobblestone courtyard.

The thick, heavy clouds and scent of snow portended a storm to come, and a crowded night for the tavern.

In fact, if the Scottish snow continued at its current rate, there wouldn’t be a spare seat in the taproom, nor, the good Lord willing, an empty room at the inn.

A storm couldn’t come at a more opportune time. The costs to run and maintain her parents’ beloved establishment, coupled with the unsteady numbers of patrons, threatened her livelihood and that of her Aunt Nettie and Uncle Tasgall.

When struggles are greatest and life seems most impossible, take heart in knowing wonderment awaits. Just as fate intends. That was what her Papa always promised. He’d spoken with such confidence, and Lucy spent years believing it.

Certainly, since his passing two years earlier, nothing went The Spotted Elk’s way or, more accurately, Lucy’s way.

And yet, as business-saving snowflakes floated past, it wasn’t that pledge of her Papa ringing in her ears, but the other. The one that whispered around in her mind whenever he was near.

Someday, my Lucy-lass, a big, braw Scot will come through those front doors of The Spotted Elk, and nothing will ever be the same…

It was him, Mr. Campbell Smith, now traversing the worn, rounded river cobbles.

He’d walked through the front doors of The Spotted Elk years earlier. Tall, blond, and attired in the finest quality wool garments, finer than any of Lucy’s regular patrons, or, for that matter, any that passing gentlemen had ever donned.

And yet she hadn’t fallen in love with him for his braw good looks—though he was plenty bonny.

Nor the generous coin he unfailingly gave, monies enough to pay a sennight of tavern expenses.

It’d been how kind he was to Lucy, Aunt Nettie, and Uncle Tasgall, and her late da.

And the smile he unfailingly wore. And the wave he gave to passersby.

And the fact he knew her name.

Not: Lucy. Everyone called her Lucy or lass.

Mr. Smith did not.

Whenever he spent the night, ordered a tankard and meal, or was just passing by, it was always…

“Miss LeBeau!” he called. “Good day to you!”

Too smitten to be embarrassed, Lucy waved the rag in her hand and then swiftly reached for the latches.

The rusty latches.

Cursing quietly to herself, she fought with metal as old as the 300-year-old establishment itself.

Her already nub of a nail snapped. Pain shot along her finger.

But then her efforts were rewarded.

Click.

A fresh blast of snow and wind hit Lucy’s face, and the sharp sting of winter briefly sucked the air from her lungs.

Neither her earlier pain, nor the sudden cold against her skin, could she feel. Not as long as he was near.

Cupping her hands around her mouth, Lucy called out, “Hello, Mr. Smith! It is a joy to see you.”

Nettie’s low, pained groan sounded over Lucy’s shoulder. “Try and sound less eager, will you, lass?” she whispered.

Mr. Smith doffed his hat and waved. “It is always a pleasure seeing you!”

“The same, Mr. S-Smith.” She tripped over her tongue. “A joy to see ye.”

“Already said that, ye did, lass,” Nettie whispered.

Uncle Tasgall made a tsking sound. “Nettie’s right, lass. Mention the weather.”

Lucy ducked her head out. “Fine weather we’re enjoying, isn’t—”

“Don’t talk about the weather, lass,” her aunt said in an embarrassingly loud whisper. “Something more memorable.”

Memorable? Lucy was the opposite of memorable. For that matter, what did she have to speak about other than the rising costs for wheat? “Like what?”

Mr. Smith finally came to a full stop. “What was that, Miss LeBeau?” Several furrows wrinkled the gentleman’s noble brow.

On either side of the window, out of the gentleman’s view, her aunt and uncle each leant suggestions. “The mulled cider, lass.”

“I have cider,” Lucy blurted. “Mulled cider!”

Uncle Tasgall leaned closer. “Nay, lass. The gingerbread the lad loves.”

Aye! Of course, how had she forgotten? “And gingerbread!” Lucy exclaimed. “I made it special for y—”

A small shelf of snow from the slate roof overhead moved. Lucy caught a whiff of wind, but too late. The six-inch pile came toppling down. It hit the top of her head and exploded in a cool, wet mass as it rained snow upon her face. “You,” she finished around a mouth of snow.

Mr. Smith’s cry rang in the courtyard. “Miss LeBeau!” The grind of snow and gravel indicated his approach.

“The snow saved ye, lass,” her aunt muttered. “Ye were sounding too eager.”

Lucy brushed the residual moisture from her eyes just as the gentleman reached her.

Concern filled Mr. Smith’s visage. “Are you all right?”

“Splendid,” she said. “’Tis always a fine day when snow falls.”

Mr. Smith glanced up at where the small drift rested before it had hit Lucy. He tossed his head back and laughed.

She sighed. Let him believe she’d intended that play on words.

Mr. Smith reached for the brim of his wool hat.

Frantic to stop him from leaving, Lucy spoke on a rush. “Are you to London for the Yuletide already?”

The McQuoids and Smiths always spent the holiday season in London. There’d been the rare one, a few years back, when all the lot had spent the night on the way to Scotland.

He curled his chestnut-brown leather glove-encased fingers around the sill. “I’ll be here a short time and then we make our annual journey to London.”

Which meant he wasn’t to leave just yet—but neither was he remaining the night. “Trust my luck,” she muttered. The winter air carried her accidental words farther than she intended.

Mr. Smith straightened. “What was that, Miss LeBeau?”

Aunt Nettie, just out of his line of sight, delivered a firm jab to Lucy’s ribs.

She let out an involuntary grunt.

The gentleman’s dark brows drew together in a puzzled line. “Are you all—?”

“F-fine!” Lucy managed, swallowing another sound as Nettie gave her a second, gentler poke meant to shut her up before she ruined herself entirely.

“Not this time, I fear,” Nettie muttered.

Lucy ducked back inside and out of sight.

Uncle Tasgall leaned in with the calm authority of a firm papa. “Och, lass. Do listen to Nettie. Hold back a bit of yer regard.”

That soft, steady guidance kept her from rambling in the presence of the most handsome, kindest, most fascinating gentleman who would ever set foot inside The Spotted Elk. Not that she could have named even five who’d come close in her twenty-four years living here. “Go, go,” Lucy whispered.

The loyal, loving pair scrambled farther out of sight.

Lucy ducked outside.

In abject confusion, Mr. Smith stared up at the sky like she’d disappeared into thin air.

“It is cold out there, Mr. Smith,” Lucy cajoled. “Before you continue on, come enjoy some gingerbread and warm mulled cider—on The Spotted Elk.”

“You’ve made your annual batch?”

Unlike Lucy’s company, that managed to snag the affable gent’s attention. “Just today, Mr. Smith.” It definitely didn’t bode well that he was more enthused about Lucy’s baking than her company.

His smile grew even wider. “What a splendid offer, Miss LeBeau,” he said, rubbing his leather gloves together. “How could I possibly resist,”—Lucy’s body arched forward—“your gingerbread?”

Deflated, Lucy sank back on her feet.

Uncle Tasgall grunted. “Want to ken what’s nah splendid? Giving away free refreshments, lass. At that, to a gent only staying for the biscuits.”

Returning the bonny gentleman’s jaunty wave, Lucy ignored her beloved uncle, and wrestled with the stubborn window. She did ken the big, lovable, loyal Scot was right. Well, at least regarding the free refreshments.

“Don’t listen to him, lass,” Aunt Nettie soothed as Lucy rushed to open the door for Mr. Smith. “We can afford a drink if it will bring the lad up to scratch.”

Several hours later

As fate would have it, a major storm did not sweep over the borderlands. Which meant the tables remained sparse and the patrons few.

Lucy should care far more than she did.

Much more.

Instead, she continued scrubbing the same portion of the taproom counter. The one that offered the best vantage of Mr. Smith seated at his table with a journal open.

For his part, Mr. Smith remained oblivious. He also had a more serious aura about him than usual.

“Whit ye waiting for, lass? Been here for four hours now. We have refilled his drink three times. Gave him a meal and hardly said a word,” Nettie whispered, washing the same exact spot of the counter next to Lucy’s.

From her other side came Uncle Tasgall’s familiar opinion. “Och. Ah for one dinnae want ye with a peacock who cannae be bothered to see ye, Lucy-lass.”

“What reason does he have to see me?” Mr. Smith may be a Scot and all, but he was the London sort.

“He’s used to fine, fancy, golden-haired, delicate, slender English misses and not—” Lucy gestured to herself.

A woman with full, dimpled cheeks, better suited to a wee lass, and ink-black curls that were no more likely to be tamed than a fiery Scottish lass, and a buxom form befitting any common serving girl.

“Some Scottish lass whose greatest skill is baking and greatest want is to see the world.”

“My lass is a bonny thing.” Uncle Tasgall scowled. “And if the fellow doesn’t have a brain to see that, then why would ye want him in the first place, Lucy-lass?”

For so many reasons. He was kind and…and…

Thwack.

“Ouch!” Uncle Tasgall rubbed at his big backside where Nettie just applied her rolled up cloth.

“Dinnae pay this ole balach beag any heed, lass,” the devoted wife, and even more devoted aunt and godmother, soothed. “Ye ken yer own hear—”

The door exploded open; wind gusted snow inside, and a tall, spindly fellow with a shock of orange hair came in with his usual unceremonial entrance.

“Close the door, will ye, Joseph?” Nettie called to the stable-keeper.

Joseph doffed his cap and gave it a wave. “Lucy-lass, yer as fine as a Scottish sunset, ye are, with those cheeks as bright as a crimson apple they be…”

Uncle Tasgall snorted. “Which is it, lad?” he drawled, going to fetch the younger man a tankard of ale. “Is she the sun or the apple?”

The ginger-headed, would-be beau grinned. “Which one is more likely to convince the lass to marry me?”

“Joseph, clap yer mouth,” Nettie whispered furiously, dragging the tall, slender servant by his ear.

“Ahhhh.” Joseph griped and groaned all the way, but he knew better than to resist Nettie, leaving Lucy and Uncle Tasgall alone.

“Yer aunt be right, she is. But don’t let her know I went about saying that,” Uncle Tasgall said, giving a gentle tug on one of her many escaped curls. “I dinnae like ye be doing all the noticin’, but some of these lads need a little push.”

Beloved Uncle Tasgall slid a glance at the gentleman in question’s way. “Or, as the case be havin’ it, a verra big shove.”

Aye, there could be no doubt. Mr. Smith was a braw fellow, he was.

“There are good things coming for you, Lucy. Ah only hope I’m around to see it. It be Christmas, my lass. Remember…”

Lucy’s back came slowly straight. “Anything can happen at Christmas…”

“Aye,” Uncle Tasgall said. His words of encouragement continued, even as Lucy finally found her legs.

At the same exact moment, Mr. Smith stood. Her feet seemed to move in slow motion, even as his moved with a dizzying speed.

He was already in his cloak, tossing down bills and coins, and then out the door as she reached the table.

Mr. Smith left a sizable fortune. Enough coin to match the collective ones of all the patrons they’d have this week. Certainly enough to pay for the ancient, carved oak sign in desperate need of repair and rehanging.

Lucy’s gaze, however, went to the brown leather journal. Reverently, she stroked her fingers over the enormous S, and letter C to its left, and letter D to its right.

Grabbing the book, she clutched it close to her chest and hung onto it. The pages were still warm from the length of time he’d spent writing within the book.

He…

He…

Had forgotten his book!

His book held protectively close in her right hand, with her other, she hitched her skirts up high and set out in pursuit. Slipping and sliding, it was all she could do to keep her feet.

“Mr. Smith!” She raised her voice louder. He was nearly at the stables. “Mr. Smith!”

Mr. Campbell Smith turned slowly.

“Yer journal!”

The nearly full moon cast a radiant white light upon his smiling face. Then a shadow fell over his handsome features.

“Mr. Smith!” she cried out a warning. Heart racing, she broke into a full sprint. “The sign.”

Startled, Mr. Smith looked up and froze.

Lucy hurled herself at Mr. Smith’s wiry chest.

Slick cobblestones proved their foe—or savior. Their legs went sliding forward, backwards, and sideways.

Lucy flew backwards.

The fallen snow only dulled some of the impact. All the air exploded from her lungs as her back collided with the earth; the force of Mr. Smith’s weight crashed atop Lucy. Stars danced in her eyes.

He grinned. “I do say, Miss LeBeau, you saved—”

The Spotted Elk’s last nail chose that moment to retire completely.

With horror, she used all her strength and power to leverage the gentleman sideways.

The flat of the sign landed at the back of his head.

Mr. Smith’s eyes formed round circles. Then they rolled back.

All Mr. Smith’s weight came tumbling down atop her. All twelve stone worth of him.

Oh, guid Lord. I killed Mr. Smith.

Nettie’s reassuring voice sounded from nearby. “Och, ye havena, lass!” the older woman said brightly. “His chest still moving, it be.”

Relief brought her eyes sliding closed.

Lucy lay stunned, both from her own fall, and the fact her family’s establishment was to blame for Mr. Smith’s demise. Or, as Nettie said, his almost demise.

She looked up, even as her uncle and Joseph worked in concert to get the gentleman to his feet.

“We do need to bring the lad home to his family. Nettie is already gone to get the cart.”

She’d always wanted to meet the big, happy family Mr. Smith often spoke of. He’d shared enough details of them over the years, and she had hoarded them like a squirrel gathering up acorns for a long winter.

Nettie appeared with the wagon.

Lucy expected the family wouldn’t be happy for long when they discovered what she was guilty of.