Julia London - Devil In Tartan

“That’s kind of you,” she said.

“’Tis no’ the least bit kind. I shall have you in good health so that I might see you hanged.”

The color in her cheeks darkened. “Hanged! I told you we’d return the ship to you! Think of it as borrowing—”

“Save your breath for your judge, lass.”

“Och,” she said with a flick of her wrist. “Your pride’s been wounded, that it has, and you’re angry now.” She took his coat from the wall and put it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she muttered.

His pride had been more than wounded—it had been destroyed. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to relive his humiliation, but unfortunately, it was impossible to ignore.

He heard her moving about, the scrape of the chair against the wooden floor, and opened his eyes. She was not very big at all, he realized, smaller than average. “Where did you learn to kick like that, then?” he asked with irritable curiosity.

She sat on one of the chairs, her legs drawn to her. Only her toes were visible. “I didna know that I could,” she said with a slight shrug. “Fear makes warriors of us, I suppose.”

“Or fools,” he said. He moved his stiff jaw around, but it resulted in an annoying jab of pain through him, serving only to remind him that he’d been undone by a woman.

“Are these your paintings?” she asked.

Aulay stiffened. She had turned, was looking at the wall where he’d hung a pair of his canvasses. More paintings were stacked behind an easel in the corner of the room. For this voyage, he’d hung a painting of the Mediterranean Sea, off the coast of Cadiz, a view of the sea over the bow of his ship. The water there was as blue as the lass’s eyes. The other painting was of the Atlantic Ocean. Aulay had not ventured very far into that ocean, but he’d sailed it enough to have a memory of the setting sun.

His paintings were a private side of him. He didn’t like to talk about them, didn’t like to compare notes with artists he met from time to time. He rarely took his work ashore. He didn’t need anything else to separate him from his brothers. Cailean and Rabbie were both strong, virile men. When they were children, the two of them would stage battles and Aulay would draw. His father used to exhort him not to waste his time on endeavors best suited for the fairer sex, and to pick up arms, to be more like his brothers. “Learn to thrust a sword, no’ a paint brush, lad,” he would say.

“Our Aulay is a gentle soul, darling,” his mother would say, her intent to defend him. But she only made it worse. His father had no use for sons with gentle souls.

Aulay would not have said he had a gentle soul. All he knew was that the painting was something in him that needed to come out. It eased him. Still, his art was for him, and him alone.

He waited for the remarks he knew would come.

“There’s no’ a soul in them,” she said curiously, and stood up, moving to the wall to have a look.

“That’s because they are paintings of seas, aye?” he said defensively.

“You paint the same sea every time? Only the sea?”

Only the sea? What was the matter with her? They were obviously two different bodies of water. “They are no’ the same at all.”

“Aye, they are. One is blue, but they look the same.” She bent over and began to rummage through his other canvasses.

Aulay shifted uncomfortably. “Have a care!” he said sharply.

“More paintings of the sea,” she said, as if he didn’t know what he’d painted.

“The sea is never the same from one moment to the next, is it? It turns over on itself, it does. The changes are so vast that at times, they are almost imperceptible. But they are no’ the same, and you have no’ been invited to inspect my things.”

She lifted her hands in surrender. “But there are no people. No’ even a ship,” she said.

It was just his bloody luck to be humiliated by a woman who also happened to be an art critic. “Diah, you’re a thief with no appreciation for art,” he said dismissively.

“We’re no’ thieves,” she said as she resumed her seat. “Had it no’ been for our emergency, we’d no’ want your ship if you presented it to us with ribbons tied to the masts,” she said pertly.

Aulay snorted. “If you’re no’ thieves, then who are you?”

“It doesna matter—”

“Aye, on the contrary, it does indeed. You canna hide. I heard the giant call you Lottie when you came on board. The man there bragged of his Livingstone stock. You are Lottie Livingstone, no’ Lady Larson,” he said, spitting out the name. “Are you pirates, then? Is it my cargo you want?”

“Pirates!” She laughed, and her eyes sparkled with amusement. “If we are pirates, Captain, then we are the worst of all!”

“Then why have you stolen my ship?” he demanded. Why have you humiliated me? Why have you ruined this chance to save the life I love?

“We’ve no’...” She sighed and shook her head. “On my word, I tell you the truth, Captain Mackenzie. Please try and think of it as merely borrowing your ship, aye? I told you, we had no choice. You’ll leave us at port and then...then go about your business.”

She said it hopefully, as if she desperately wanted to believe that could happen. He was quick to disabuse her of that idea. “That’s absurd. You surely donna believe that I’ll no’ avenge the unlawful taking of my ship, aye?”

Her hopeful expression fell. She looked at the old man. “Then what should I do?”

“Pardon?”

She shifted her gaze to Aulay. “I could use your advice, aye?”

Aulay scoffed at the suggestion.

“I donna know what to do, Captain,” she said, sounding a wee bit desperate. “I can scarcely believe what I’ve done. Tell me what to do—you’re a man of great experience—”

“You honestly think I’ll advise you?” he asked incredulously.

“No,” she said, her brows furrowing. “But I hoped. I’m in water well over my head, I am, and I could use a wee bit of proper counsel. I’ve none, you might have noticed.”

Hardly proper counsel, seeing as he was the one bound. But it occurred to him he could perhaps use this opportunity to his advantage. “Where are you bound, then?”

“For Aalborg.”

Aulay’s heart seized. That was the wrong direction. “Denmark,” he said.

She nodded.

“Why there?”

“We’ve...we’ve something to sell,” she said hesitantly.

“Aye, and what is that? The contents of my hold?”

“No!” she said, affronted.

“What else would you have to sell, then? What could you possibly have that must be sold in some small port of Denmark, other than what is in my hold?” he pressed her. “I’m carrying wool and salted beef. My hold was full before you tricked us with your...” He almost said hair. “Tell me the truth, lass—do you mean to sell it?”

“For the love of all that is holy, your goods are where you put them, aye? At least in part.” She abruptly came to her feet.

“What do you mean, in part?” he demanded.

“There are crates yet,” she said, waving off his questions as she began to pace. “Some of it...mostly wool, I think...well, it was lost because...” She gestured with her hand in a manner of someone searching for a word.

“Because?”

“Because there was some confusion on board among my men about where we might put our cargo,” she said quickly. “I stopped them before they threw over more than a wee bit.”

Aulay stared at her, trying to make sense of it.

“I beg your pardon, but there was quite a lot of panic,” she said, and stole a quick glance at the man on the bed before moving closer to him to whisper, “Our ship was sinking. It sank.”