cold gaze to the woman who was pacing, the hem of his greatcoat dragging the floor behind her. Her brow was furrowed and she seemed lost in thought. Bloody whisky runners. His mind raced with the necessity to free himself, to salvage what he could before all was lost.
The lass stopped pacing. She turned to face him, and damn her if she didn’t look almost tearful. “Help me,” she said softly. “Tell me what to do!”
“Help you pirate my own ship?”
She groaned heavenward. “You’ll have your ship as soon as we are to Aalborg!”
He stared at her, his thoughts racing. “If we are to Aalborg, you’ll need my men to sail us there, aye? Best you bring Beaty in so that he might chart the course.” That was a lie—Beaty could navigate by the stars overhead, and it was almost impossible to chart a course when the day was as bleak as this. For all Aulay knew, Beaty might have already turned this ship about. But he hoped she would give Beaty entry into the cabin.
She considered his suggestion.
“Of course, you canna be certain I’ll no’ chart a course that turns us about and sends us back to Scotland and into the hands of the crown, can you, then?”
She shot him a suspicious look. “You’ll no’ do that. You’ll no’ risk putting your ship into the hands of the crown. They’ll no’ believe you’re innocent, no’ with whisky on board. You need me and mine off your ship, I should think.”
Clever and beautiful. But Aulay would see her brought to justice. And he would do it by taking full advantage of her naiveté.
“Aye, you’re right, you are.” He held up his hands. “Untie me, and I will help you.”
She blinked. She moved closer, so close that Aulay could see flecks of light gray in her pale blue eyes that, under different circumstances, would have tempted him. His gaze slid to her lips, succulent and pursed, and errant thoughts began to wander into places they ought not to have gone. This was the woman who had aggrieved him, had stolen his ship, had put his crew in peril. How could he imagine kissing her? He’d been addled by that blow to the head, clearly.
She seemed to know what he was thinking, because she smiled saucily and tilted her head back. He held up his hands to her so that she might release him. “I’ll no’ deny it, I need you, I do, Captain,” she said silkily, and a warm shiver ran down his spine. “But donna take me for a fool.” She abruptly put her hands on his chest and shoved him away, then stepped back.
She took the greatcoat from her shoulders, slid one arm into a sleeve, and then the other, then buttoned the coat up to her neck so that she looked as if she was wearing a priest’s robe. She picked up the gun from the table and slid it into the pocket before she shoved her feet into wet boots. “There are men to be fed, and my father needs a change of bandage.” She moved to the door.
He realized she meant to leave him. “If you want my help, bring me Beaty,” he said sternly.
She opened the door and went out. A moment later, he heard what sounded like a barrel or a crate being slid across the decking and shoved in front of the door.
All right, then, she was no fool.
Well, neither was he...all evidence to the contrary. He would help her, all right. He would help her right into the arms of the authorities.
LOTTIE DIDN’T CARE that the rain was slashing across her face, making it difficult to see. She walked directly to the railing and gripped it tightly as she leaned over it, taking deep gulps of wet, salt-soaked air and, for a fleeting moment, toyed with the idea of lowering the jolly and putting herself in it and bobbing off and away from this catastrophe.
That man, her captive, had snatched the breath from her. She’d never looked into eyes so piercing or so shrewd, had never felt such restrained power in a man. There had been only a thin chain keeping him from flinging himself at her and strangling the breath out of her with one hand as he apparently wanted to do—she could see it in the way he’d glared at her. What in God’s name possessed her to stick her hand into the fire?
She thought of his hair, streaked blond by the sun, wild about his shoulders, having come free of its queue. She thought of the dark beginnings of his beard that framed a sensual mouth, even with his lips pressed together in an unforgiving line. She thought of the way he looked at her as if he meant to put her on a spit and roast her. Was it a sign of depravity that she wanted to be roasted by him? In spite of extraordinary and challenging circumstances, the thought caused her to shiver with a mix of thrill and fear. And perhaps the worst of it all was that she did need the counsel of someone like him.
“Lottie!”
She swayed backward from the railing and turned about as Drustan lumbered across the deck to her, his face twisted with worry.
“What is it, mo chridhe?” she asked.
Drustan slipped on the wet planking and grabbed awkwardly for the railing to keep from falling. “I donna know what to do,” he said. “Mats, he hasna told me what I’m to do, but I’m no’ to go up there.” He pointed to the masts.
Lottie looked up—Mats was several feet above her, helping with the sails. “Good Lord,” she murmured.
“I want to see Fader,” Drustan said.
“Aye, I know,” Lottie said soothingly. Drustan was not adept at finding his footing when circumstances changed. Frankly, none of them were. “We’ll see that all the men are fed, and then I’ll take you to see him.” She reached up and used the sleeve of the captain’s coat to wipe rain from Drustan’s face. “Come,” she said, and took his hand.
They made their way to the quarterdeck, where Norval Livingstone stood guard over Mr. Beaty. Even with the relentless rain, she could hear Gilroy and Beaty arguing.
“I tell you, ’tis no’ the way it’s done,” Gilroy said as Lottie and Drustan climbed the steps.
“Canna outrun a frigate without a gaff,” Beaty said gruffly.
“I beg your pardon,” Lottie said.
Both men had failed to notice her approach and jerked their gazes around to her, slinging water off their cocked hats and into her face. Lottie sputtered, wiping the rain from her face with her sleeve.
“You ought no’ to be on deck,” Gilroy said. “Look at you, soaked through.”
“Are we bound for Denmark?” she asked, ignoring Gilroy, her eyes locked on Beaty.
Beaty glowered at her. “Beggin’ your pardon, but do you think I canna find my way to Denmark?”
“Why should she trust you?” Gilroy demanded.
Beaty glared at him, too, cocked hat to cocked hat. “You’re the one who has stolen our ship, and I am no’ to be trusted, is that the way of it? I’m sailing her, am I no’? Sailing east, too, as anyone can plainly see.”
Lottie could not plainly see it. Gilroy was right—she didn’t trust Beaty. But neither did she trust her own
