Julia London - Devil In Tartan

“Do I no’?” he asked congenially, as if they were playing a game. “Then shoot me.”

“Och, pusling, before you shoot him, the tincture Morven has given me has no’ dulled the pain. Might there be some brandy about?”

“Pardon, what?” She was so intent on the captain and the quicksand she found herself in, that at first her father’s question didn’t make sense.

“Brandy,” he said again. “I could use a wee dram, that I could.”

Lottie looked at Mackenzie.

He sighed at the imposition. “In the sideboard, below.”

Lottie moved backward, keeping her eye on Beaty, and bumping into the immovable table. Beaty looked terribly confused, his gaze swinging between her and his captain and her father. Lottie managed to keep the gun trained on Mackenzie as she dipped down and opened the cupboard beneath the sideboard. She took her eyes from him for a brief moment, reaching inside the cabinet for a half empty bottle of dark amber liquid. She noticed a neat stack of lawn shirts, trews and trousers. Lottie grabbed the bottle, closed the door and quickly stood.

Beaty leaned toward the captain and said something quite low.

“English!” Lottie shouted.

Beaty lifted his hands. “I need a wee bit of help setting a course for Aalborg, aye? ’Tis the cap’n’s head that can work out all the figures—no’ mine.”

“No,” she said as she skirted around the table with a bottle of brandy in one hand and the gun in the other. The throbbing had started up in her neck again, and her arm was beginning to burn from holding the gun aloft. She knew that it wobbled, and she could see the captain had noted it, too.

“Ah, there’s an angel. Thank you, pusling,” her father said, and with a shaking hand, took the bottle she held out to him.

“You ought to put the gun down, Lottie,” Mackenzie said. “You’ll lose all feeling in your arm if you donna. You’d no’ want to cause injury to yourself.”

“Uist,” Lottie said, warning him to be quiet.

He smiled wryly and asked, “What is the penalty for piracy, Beaty?”

“Hanging, sir.”

“We’re no’ pirates,” Lottie said irritably.

“What is the penalty for holding a captain with a gun against his will, Beaty?” he asked, his gaze on Lottie.

Beaty paused to consider it. He shrugged. “Hanging. Or walking a plank.”

The pain in Lottie’s head began to shift to her belly.

The captain made a tsk, tsk sound. “You should no’ have picked up the gun, then, aye?”

Her father, who had taken two healthy swigs of the brandy, suddenly chuckled. “Aye, he’s a clever one, Lottie, this captain. He means to unnerve you. He canna know that you’re no’ easily disheartened.”

Ironically, Lottie was feeling quite disheartened at the moment.

“Donna pay him any heed, pusling.” Her father paused to take another healthy swig of the brandy. “You have the gun and the ship, aye? If you so desired, you could shoot them both and toss them to the fish and the crew would be none the wiser.”

Lottie turned her head and stared at her father.

“By the bye, Captain, your brandy is excellent.”

“My intention is only to help,” the captain said. “As you’ve said, you’re in a wee bit over your head, aye? I’d no’ like to see you on a plank.”

“I’d rather hang, were it me,” Beaty opined.

Lottie swung the muzzle of the gun from the captain to Beaty now. “All right, then, you’ve seen your captain and now we’ll go below to tell your men he is very much alive, aye? Come now, before I find a plank for you.”

“Aye, go, Beaty, lest they deliver us into the depths of the sea,” the captain said. “And God help them find Aalborg if they do.” He smiled.

Bloody hell, but this man had her at sixes and sevens. Beaty started for the door, but paused to speak in Gaelic to Mackenzie.

“Now,” she said sternly.

Beaty opened a door, and Lottie fell in behind him. She glanced at the captain as she followed Beaty out, and the man had the audacity to smirk. Smirk.

That’s what she got for asking for help.

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