Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland Page 8

  The sailor chuckled. “Did ye no’ see him? He was only halfway down the gangplank when the Witch blew, and the explosion damn near threw him through the air, it did.”

  The sailor might have found it funny, but she could only feel relief. Smiling her thanks, Marcail wiped away a tear with her sleeve and began to make her way through the crowd to the coach. She was so filled with emotion that she didn’t know what she thought, or why. She only knew that she needed some time alone before she faced William again.

  A letter from Captain William Hurst to his sister Mary, after he landed in Bristol to restock before setting sail for a four-month journey.

  Life aboard ship is simple and uncomplicated. There are rules much as we had at home—to be polite to one another, respect one another’s property, and do your chores so they do not burden another.

  There are differences, too, of course. For one, no one presses me to read the way Father was wont to. Yet I find myself doing it anyway to break the boredom, or out of curiosity and a desire to learn. Our father established reading as a habit and we’re all beneficiaries of it.

  CHAPTER 8

  William watched grimly as the Agile Witch was slowly carried out to sea by the tide, listing sadly to one side. His ship was gone, burning like the blazes of Hades. She would sink soon, along with his favorite books, the paintings his sisters had made him, his new brass compass, and the maps he’d collected over the years.

  Those were painful to lose, but they paled at the sight of the mighty Witch sailing her final few yards.

  He pushed aside the weight of his thoughts. “That’s the end to that.”

  MacDougal wiped his eyes with his ragged sleeve before he glanced around. After making certain that no crew members were nearby, he lowered his voice. “So ye found more gunpowder.”

  William shifted so that he was standing a bit closer to the first mate. “Aye,” he said in a quiet tone. “Four barrels. Two large timbers had fallen across them and were smoldering, so there was nothing for it but to run.”

  “Och, what a crime!”

  “Indeed. There was no saving the Agile Witch. We were fortunate the men were all clear of the deck when she blew.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Finally, MacDougal heaved a deep sigh. “’Tis almost more than I can bear.”

  “Aye. The barrels weren’t ours. They were marked in a way I’ve never seen before. A black circle with a red circle inside it.”

  The first mate’s thick gray eyebrows were lowered. “How do ye think they got onboard? I’d have noticed them during the evening inspection, I’m sure, especially with such markings.”

  “I think someone slipped onboard and set the fire in the hold, knowing that all hands would report to fight it, including you.”

  “Which left the deck clear fer the devils to do their dirty work.” MacDougal spat, his eyes wet with tears. “Damn them, whoe’er they are. Who would do such an evil thing?” His voice thickened. “It’s hard to believe she’s gone. She was right as rain one minute, and then the next—” He gulped back a sob.

  William knew how the first mate felt, but he refused to give in to despair. Even now, his crew was watching, locked on his every move.

  He slapped the first mate on the shoulder, forced a grim smile, and said in a voice that could be heard by all, “Don’t take it so to heart, MacDougal. ’Tis but a ship. A damned fine one, but we’ll have another one just as glorious as the Agile Witch.” He glanced about the dock and nodded to the crew members who stood closest. “No lives were lost today, and we should be thankful for that.”

  The men nodded, their expressions slightly less bleak.

  “Aye, Cap’n.” MacDougal swiped his eyes with the tail of his soot-covered shirt, leaving a swipe of black across them until he looked like a masked thief.

  William found himself chuckling, despite the sinking knowledge that he was now in even less of a position to rescue Michael. “MacDougal, collect the crew, find them a good night’s lodging and a meal, and then assemble at the docks in Bristol. I shall write to London tonight and have my banker send you a letter of marquee for the purchase of a new ship.”

  MacDougal straightened. “Right away?”

  “If I’m to rescue my brother I must have a ship, and I’d prefer not to commission one that I cannot do with as I will. See what ships are available once you reach the Bristol shipyards. And find a good, swift one.”

  “That’ll cost ye a pretty penny.”

  “Expense be damned.”

  MacDougal brightened considerably. “Expense be damned?”

  “You heard me. And while you’re there, keep the crew out of trouble. When I arrive, I’ll wish to set sail as quickly as possible.”

  MacDougal nodded, his composure regained. “Aye, Cap’n. A few days restin’ in Bristol will be jus’ the thing for the crew’s morale.”

  William nodded as he watched the Witch tilt, slowly rolling to her side. He replied quietly, “I don’t know why someone set that fire, but I intend on finding out. Meanwhile, keep an eye on the men. They’re a superstitious lot and I won’t have them saying we sail under an unlucky sign or any other drivel.”

  “If they thought that, then to a man they’d sign up fer some other crew.”

  “Indeed they would. Keep them happy in Bristol, and busy when you’ve the chance.”

  “Aye. And I’ll put an end to any talk of ill luck, too.”

  “Good.” William turned from the burning wreckage that had once been his ship. “It wasn’t ill luck that sank the Agile Witch. It was a human, MacDougal. A sneaky, conniving, evil human and when I find them—” He curled his hands into fists.

  “Aye, Cap’n. I hope ye find ’em and crush ’em beneath yer boot heel, and then string ’em up on the yardarm fer the vultures to pick out their eyes, and then string ’em behind the ship so the shark can feast on their bones and—”

  William had to laugh. “Stand down, MacDougal.”

  MacDougal gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Cap’n, but me blood is thirstin’ fer revenge.”

  “As is mine.” William could think of only one person who had ill intentions toward him. They’d sent the one woman he was susceptible to—Marcail—to steal from him, and now he suspected they knew he’d been within an Ames’s ace of regaining the artifact, so they’d taken a drastic next step and torched his ship. Someone wanted that onyx box very, very badly.

  “Will ye need a room tonight, too, Cap’n?” MacDougal asked.

  William thought of Marcail, who waited for him in his coach, and he smiled coldly. “No. I will join you and the crew in Bristol in under a week’s time.”

  MacDougal saluted smartly. “Very well, Cap’n. Ye can count on me.” He turned and began barking orders, the crew looking relieved at this sign of normalcy.

  Passing by his crew, William stopped to congratulate them on their brave attempt to save the ship, then he strolled down the quickly emptying quay. A line of buckets marked the efforts of the townsmen and women who’d done their best to save his ship, and at the end of the line a burly barman, still wearing his apron, stared morosely toward the sea. William paused to clap the man on the shoulder. “Thank you for your help.”

  The barman stood a bit straighter. “Ye’re welcome, sir. Was everyone on the ship saved?”

  “All are accounted for, and other than one broken leg and some minor burns, the crew are fine.”

  “That’s a miracle.”

  “Indeed it is. That wouldn’t be true if it weren’t for you and the rest of the town. I cannot thank you enough.”

  The man beamed. “’Tis the way o’ Southend-on-Sea, Cap’n. When we see a need we don’t ask questions, but do what needs to be done.”

  As William nodded and turned away, he saw Marcail’s cloak pooled on the dock. He bent and picked it up, the softness of the brushed gray wool lingering on his fingertips as the red satin trim gleamed. There was no mistaking it; no other woman in Southend would own such a fine cloak.

 
; The barman tsked. “The miss’s cloak. She must have forgot it.”

  “You saw the woman who wore this?”

  “Saw her? I worked beside her for nigh on an hour.”

  Worked? The man must be daft; Marcail wouldn’t soil her hands with real work.

  The barman’s voice broke in, “Do ye know the miss, Cap’n?”

  “Aye. She rode with me in my coach here to the quay.”

  Admiration showed in the man’s eyes. “She’s a good one, she is. Helped us with the bucket brigade, carrying buckets of water heavier than she was, and she ne’er complained a mite.”

  Why would Marcail help put out the fire on his ship? William couldn’t think of a single reason. Until this moment, he’d been certain that she’d be pleased that he’d faced such a loss.

  His gaze dropped to the large buckets and he rubbed his forehead wearily, struggling to make sense of it all.

  Unaware of William’s struggle, the barman continued, “Aye. She’ll be sore tomorrow, that’s fer certain.” The man rubbed his back and grimaced. “I’ll be sore meself, passin’ all of those buckets onward. I wish we’d saved the ship.”

  “You did your best, and I’m eternally grateful,” William replied automatically.

  William couldn’t imagine Marcail rolling up her silk sleeves and doing something as physical and dirty as carrying water buckets. It was completely at odds with his knowledge of her, knowledge written in her own hand years ago. In the letter she’d flatly told him that she was leaving him for a man who was wealthier and better placed socially than William would ever be.

  Just thinking about it still had the power to make his stomach tighten. He’d been such a fool, such a blind, lovesick fool, that her letter—baring her ugly soul for the small-spirited, money-grabbing, social-climbing thing that it was—had nearly destroyed him.

  It had been a brutal lesson to learn, but he was wiser for it. Though he’d shared his bed with a number of women and enjoyed his fair share of flirtations, never again had he succumbed to a woman’s wiles.

  He tossed Marcail’s cloak over his shoulder, turned toward the street, and saw her picking her way up the crowded dock. Several men had paused to look back at her, struck by her beauty.

  William simmered at their reactions. Damn it, she should be in the coach. How had she talked her way out of it? Somehow she’d managed to charm Poston, something William would have wagered couldn’t be done.

  Up ahead, Marcail turned to look down the street before crossing it, and he noticed that she was far from her usual cool, elegant self: her gown was dirty, her face shiny from her exertions, her hair clinging to her cheeks and neck.

  She crossed the street, then turned to watch the final timbers of the Agile Witch sputter in flames upon the sea, her expression somber.

  She looks genuinely sad. The realization made William’s heart twist and he frowned, still struggling to reconcile his previous knowledge of her with her actions today. After a long moment, he shook his head and walked toward her.

  She was still facing the ocean, but she blinked as if suddenly waking up, then turned away, stepping carefully, and he remembered that she wore no shoes. Damn it, her feet must be cut and bruised. His jaw tightened. What are you trying to do, Marcail Beauchamp?

  He headed swiftly down the quay, his gaze locked on Marcail’s dark head. He caught up to her as she stepped onto the small walk in front of the shops lining the dockside, and swooped her up into his arms. “Hello, my troublesome little—”

  “William!” She buried her face in his neck, holding tight.

  William stopped stock-still. What the hell? William scowled down at her, instantly aware of her lush curves clasped to his chest and the scent of lavender in her hair.

  She looked up at him. “I was so worried—” Her voice caught as if tears choked the words from her lips.

  She acts as if she cares for me, which I know to be a falsehood. Her seeming feelings are never real; I only wish I could say the same about mine. Truth be told, a decided amount of pleasure rose through him as he held her in his arms, which was a feeling best left unexamined.

  Irritated with his own thoughts, he growled out, “Release my neck, woman! I’ve need of it myself.”

  She gave a watery laugh and loosened her hold. “I’m sorry. It’s been a very trying hour. I-I was afraid that you were still on the ship when—” Her voice caught and she once again buried her face in his neck, her tears warm through his shirt.

  He quickly headed toward the carriage. The “overcome innocent” was a useless charade; he knew her too well. He should simply drop her onto her stockinged feet and let her limp back to the carriage.

  Instead, he found himself resting his cheek on her hair, the lavender scent tickling his nose.

  Before he’d stopped believing in love he would have given the world for this moment, when he could hold her as if no one in the world mattered but the two of them.

  But he was no longer that man. He forced himself to lift his cheek from her hair. “For God’s sake, must I ask again? Loosen your hold.”

  She looked up at him, her nose and eyes red, her hair mussed, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, a hurt expression on her face.

  “You look a fright,” he said.

  To his vast relief, she took instant umbrage and loosened her hold, her brow lowering. “Oh! You are so—” Her lips folded, then she snapped, “I’m sorry if I held you too tightly. I had no idea your neck was so weak.”

  That was more like it. William settled her more comfortably in his arms and turned toward the coach. He was certain people on the street were watching them with interest, but he didn’t give a damn.

  “You may release me now; I can walk the rest of the way,” she demanded.

  “Without shoes?”

  “Without shoes.” She didn’t give an inch.

  He never slowed. “I’ve too much to do to wait for you to mince your way to the coach.”

  “I don’t want you to carry me.”

  “That is too bad.”

  “Damn you, put me down.” Her furious voice tickled his ear. “I will scream if you don’t.”

  “I believe I owe you a spanking from earlier in the evening. If you scream, I will deliver it now.”

  “You wouldn’t spank me,” she replied in far too smug a tone. “You didn’t do it before and you won’t do it now.”

  She was right, but he wouldn’t admit it. Instead, he shrugged. “Fine. I’ll prove it.” He made as if to set her down, but she gripped him tighter.

  “You can’t do that here.”

  “Oh, but I can.” He lifted a brow. “Want to try me?”

  She shook her head slowly, but her expression said something entirely different. Her lips were parted, her eyes dark, and he knew she was remembering the “spanking” she’d gotten before. His body hardened at the memory and he was glad her long skirts covered his reaction.

  She sighed, suddenly looking as tired as he felt. “William, please … this is ridiculous.”

  He glanced down at her. Though she protested and kicked a little, her head was now wearily tucked against his shoulder.

  His heart ached in an odd way and he held her tighter. “There’s the coach now.”

  “You, sir, have a rude propensity for scooping me up as if I were a bag of flour.”

  “Bags of flour don’t kick,” he pointed out.

  Her lips twitched. “They would if you handled them so roughly.”

  He frowned down at her. “Did Poston let you out of the coach?”

  “No. He went to help you, leaving me trapped in the coach.”

  “You’re free now.”

  “I worked at it,” she replied huffily.

  With her hair in a tangle, and dirt smudging her face, she looked like an outraged kitten. He hid an unexpected smile and replied in a milder tone, “I’m sorry I snapped at you for holding so tightly to my neck, but I couldn’t see where I was walking.”

  She was silent a moment. To his s
urprise, she said, “I’m sorry, too. I was just worried. The ship was on fire and then there was the explosion and I kept picturing you broken and bruised, trapped by a burning beam with no one able to reach you, and the fire raging all around—”

  “Good God, you have a vivid imagination!”

  “I know. It’s a burden.”

  “Tell your imagination that it will take more than that little explosion to rid the world of me.”

  She peeped up at him, her wet lashes radiating from her eyes, which looked darker than usual. “Invincible, are you?” she asked, a faint teasing note in her voice.

  “Today, yes.” They reached the coach. Despite his intentions otherwise, he found himself oddly loath to release her.

  He deserved this moment of peace, when he wasn’t questioning her and she wasn’t defying him. Soon enough, their relationship would return to its normal, abrasive path. And the more contentious their relationship, the better for them both, he decided. Despite all that had transpired between them, he was constantly aware of a tug of attraction that was far too strong. Once he had the artifact he’d never see her again, which was fine with him.

  He suddenly noted how the coach door hung at an odd angle. “Interesting.”

  Marcail turned to see what had caught his attention. “Oh. That.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Poston tied the shutters and doors closed. I had to find a way to open one from the inside.”

  “I didn’t see Poston on the quay, but that’s not surprising. Every person in town seems to be there.” He set her on her feet, frowning at the dirt on her gown and her black stockings. He flicked a glance at her face and noted she was pale beneath the grime, her face streaked by her tears.

  Too late he realized that he apparently had a weakness for emotional females, particularly ones with violet eyes and tear-streaked faces. The sooner she was back to being her usual composed, collected self, the sooner he could get the artifact and forget that this week had occurred.

  He leaned back and regarded her from head to foot. “Good God, you’re filthy.”

  Her tremulous smile disappeared as her chin snapped up. “So are you.”