Ross,’ he amended and nodded to Mr McDonald. ‘You heard the lady, sir. Six inches. Reminds me of a scurrilous joke I shall never tell. The same for you, laddie?’
Nathan nodded, his eyes wide. ‘Do...d’ye plan to eat the rest, Da?’
Mary watched with delight as the captain pursed his lips, squinted and eyed the monstrous sausage. Even after the keep and cook severed two portions, the remaining bulk was formidable.
‘Probably not, Son, if I plan to sleep tonight and not spend the wee hours of morning in the head. Maybe when I was younger, I could have.’ He eyed Mary without a single repentant look. ‘Plain speaking, ma’am. We Rennies specialise in it. Do you?’
‘I suppose I’d better,’ she told him, determined not to be embarrassed because she found father and son so fascinating. ‘Go easy on the neeps and taties, then.’
Mr McDonald served them and stood there. Mary suspected his sedate little inn seldom sheltered visitors as interesting as the Rennies.
Captain Rennie dismissed the keep with a slight nod, the kind of gesture that would have meant next to nothing if she had attempted it. Coming from a post captain, the nod sent McDonald to the door immediately. Too bad I cannot give a nod like that and send Dina scurrying, Mary thought. I’ll have to watch how he does that.
The whig bread smelled divine. She wasn’t sure about the rum butter until she tried a dollop on a scrap of bread. She couldn’t help her exclamation of pleasure. The captain took a break from his mouthful of sausage and buttered a larger slice for her, as though she were a child.
‘You’re used to looking after people, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘A shipful, Cousin,’ he said around that mouthful of sausage. ‘Two hundred and fifty when we have a full complement, which is seldom.’
She savoured every bite of the bread and sausage, wishing she had loosened her stays before the Rennies knocked on her door and changed the course of her trip for one night. The errant thought crossed her sausage-soaked brain that she was going to miss them tomorrow.
Mary stopped eating just after Nathan pushed his plate away and staggered to the sofa to flop down. The captain showed no signs of quitting. The four-foot length of sausage had been greatly diminished and she wondered if he had a hollow leg as well as a peg-leg. She glanced at it, curious to know how he kept the thing on, then glanced away. She had never sat so close to someone with a wooden leg before, but it didn’t follow that she had lost all her manners.
She sat back and tried to hide a discreet belch behind her napkin. ‘That was amazing, Captain.’
‘Ross,’ he repeated, a man most patient. He set down his fork, but only long enough to add more potatoes to his plate. ‘Are you finished?’
Mary nodded. ‘I should have done that fifteen minutes ago.’ She chuckled. ‘Cap—Ross, I was going to have a bowl of vegetable soup and a hard roll.’
He just rolled his eyes at that dismal news and continued his tour through the Guardian’s cuisine. ‘Tell me, if I am not prying overmuch, what has brought a lady out on the road? I would think you should have a chaperon stashed somewhere.’
Mary shook her head, touched at his concern. I suppose you have added me to your stewardship of two-hundred-and-fifty men, she thought. And one small boy. ‘I’m past the age of needing a chaperon.’
‘I doubt that. You can’t be a year over twenty-four.’
‘Try almost four years over.’ She leaned closer. ‘Since you are being impertinent, so shall I be. How old are you?’
‘What do you reckon, Cuz?’ he asked. ‘I probably look fifty, but I blame the wind and general stress.’
‘I was going to say forty-five,’ she told him.
‘You’re off by seven or so. I am thirty-nine in January.’
‘Antique, indeed,’ she murmured. ‘Well, now, we are both getting on in years, but this is my first adventure. Care to hear about it?’
Ross did, surprising himself. He had spent so many years dining alone with charts and logs that the prospect of an evening with a pretty lady beguiled him. He glanced at Nathan, whose eyes were starting to close from the effects of such a meal.
Mary observed him, following his gaze. Without a word, she got up and took a light blanket off the back of the sofa. As he watched, she covered his son, then placed the back of her hand lightly against his cheek. Nathan opened his eyes, smiled at her, and made himself comfortable in that way of adaptable little boys.
She sat down again. ‘I am supposed to be having an adventure, all because of Christmas cake. Perhaps you call it fruitcake.’
‘I don’t call it anything.’ He chuckled. ‘I suppose I would have eaten nearly anything in my Turkish prison, but fruitcake?’
She widened her eyes, and he enjoyed the effect because her face could be so animated, he was rapidly discovering. ‘Turkish prison?’
‘A story for another day. It’s your turn now,’ he reminded her.
He kept eating while she told him a tale of Cousin Dina, a valuable ring and a cook named Mrs Morison who had volunteered her to retrieve four fruitcakes. Her tale was so homely and simple it took a moment to soak into his brain, because he was used to bad news, and storms and broadsides and noise.
‘You have commandeered three cakes already?’
She nodded, then laughed softly, careful not to disturb Nathan. He appreciated that nicety in her. Or maybe she was just a quiet woman. Whatever the truth, he found her air of peace almost as soothing as the Cumberland sausage. ‘I am suspecting that no one likes to eat my aunt Martha’s Christmas cake. P’raps not even Turks! You should have seen their eagerness when I said I needed them back!’
‘Did you tell them why?’
Mary shook her head. ‘That would only embarrass Dina, my cousin—our cousin?’ She seemed to gauge his expression. ‘Aye, she’s foolish, but I can be kind. I have concocted a taradiddle that the ingredients are a bit off and shouldn’t be served.’
You are kind, he thought. ‘And?’ he prompted.
‘No ring in those three cakes.’
She trilled her rs so beautifully. Ross enjoyed the sound, as well as the thickness of her accent. He found it almost a balm to his soul because it reminded him of earlier years, before Napoleon had decided to rule the known world. Ross thought of his mother suddenly and her well-nigh impenetrable brogue. Mam had died while he languished in a Spanish prison on the other side of the world in Caracas, Venezuela. He would have given the earth to hear her lovely voice one more time.
‘Captain?’ Her voice was soft and she looked concerned.
‘Just woolgathering,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been a long time away from a good brogue with no bark on it. The Royal Navy tends to smooth out most Scotsmen.’
‘You, included.’ She smiled at him, then glanced at his sleeping son. ‘I’m not so certain your wee bairn can understand much of what I said. Ah, well. I’ll
