An American in Scotland Read online

  He wasn’t, if the truth be told, all that eager to become a well-­seasoned traveler. He missed his home already and they’d been gone only three days. Perhaps he was a creature of habit or locked into a routine, but he got enjoyment from starting and finishing something tangible, a length of cloth, a sum of numbers, refurbishing an ancient piece of equipment. He liked planning, but more importantly, he liked seeing that plan come to fruition. Just like Lennox enjoyed laying out the design of a ship and then making sure it developed from an idea to a reality.

  Being a sailor was less planning and more praying.

  He stood at the rail, listening to the sound of the engines, watching as the paddle wheel turned. The ship was surprisingly quiet or maybe that was by design. Perhaps Lennox had made the engines as silent as he could, in preparation for running through a phalanx of Union ships.

  At least after last night no one could say the Raven was cursed. She’d shown her true mettle.

  He wanted to go home when this was done. He wanted to get mill number two cleaned out. Once the building was empty, he could have the smaller, more intricate looms delivered for use with the Indian cotton.

  As a boy he discovered he had an affinity for machines. He liked figuring out what was wrong and fixing it. He was spending less time in his office and more on the floor of the mill and that was fine with him.

  ­People weren’t machines, however, but infinitely more complex and less understandable. Perhaps it was only women who confounded him. Or simply Rose.

  He turned at a sound and saw the door to the stateroom open. A moment later she stepped out, nearly indistinguishable from the shadows in her mourning.

  “Is it for him?” he asked. “Or do you wear mourning for your brothers?”

  “My brothers.”

  He nodded, pleased in a way that disturbed him. But Bruce MacIain was not a man he admired and he wished the bastard didn’t share his name.

  “Why can’t you sleep?”

  “Perhaps my guilty conscience,” she said.

  Because of their kiss? That wasn’t a question he would ask, not when someone might overhear them.

  The moon was waning. A good thing, according to Captain McDougal. They’d timed their voyage right. They’d refuel at Nassau and leave for Charleston on a moonless night, the better to be unseen by Union ships.

  She came and stood at the rail beside him.

  “It’s almost possible to believe that we’re alone in the world, isn’t it?”

  One of her gloved hands was close to his on the railing. He wanted to put his hand on hers. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. Hell, he wasn’t that altruistic. He wanted to hold her because holding her felt good. She fit against him perfectly.

  The chilled breeze encouraged him to extend his arm around her and pull her close. What would she do? Instead of pulling her into his embrace, he touched her wrist, felt her shiver and withdrew his fingers.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  “No. No, it’s all right. I just didn’t expect it.”

  He was suffused with questions. Did no one ever touch her? Was she afraid to be touched? Had Bruce hurt her?

  Turning, he faced her, wishing the moonlight wasn’t so bright. In the darkness he wouldn’t be able to see that she was looking away, her eyes on the distant horizon. The waves caught and held her attention as if she were a mermaid. A creature from the deep who’d agreed to be a guest aboard the Raven for only moments.

  Daring himself, he stroked her cheek with two fingers, a slow journey from temple to chin. Her skin was so soft he wondered if he marked her with his callused touch.

  She turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and dark in the night. Her lips were slightly open as if about to speak. What was she going to say? Please don’t touch me. Please take yourself and your curiosity away.

  He was prepared for her rebuff. He had the words ready in the forefront of his mind.

  You’re sad and I don’t know why. I can’t leave you like this, as if you’re about to cry. Can’t I do something? Anything, even if that gesture angers you? Better your anger than your tears, Rose.

  Instead, she confounded him by reaching up and placing her hand on his. Pressing his hand against her face as if she wished to mark his palm there permanently.

  “You’ve been so kind to me, Duncan.”

  “How have I been kind?”

  “You took me into your home. You listened to me when I came to you. You purchased Glengarden’s cotton, and now, despite your misgivings, you’re taking me to Nassau.”

  All of that was true, but he didn’t want her thinking of him as kind. Any other label but that. He didn’t want to be avuncular in her eyes. He didn’t want her looking at him and thinking friend. He didn’t want to be treated like her brother.

  Her soft smile touched something deep inside him. He’d never thought himself as passionate as others in his family or even Lennox. Other than the MacIain Mill, he’d never devoted himself to a cause. He’d never been willing to give everything he had to ensure that someone else was safe or happy or pleased with life.

  Lennox had been willing to give up his pride. So had Glynis.

  Now was his turn.

  “Don’t make me out to be a saint, Rose,” he said. “I’m not that unselfish.”

  He dropped his hand, suddenly angry at himself. Didn’t she realize that he’d never acted the fool around another woman? He’d been pleasant and charming, but unapproachable.

  She’d walked right into his life and stirred something in him, some base emotion that wasn’t altogether pure. Something dark and forbidden, scary and uncontrollable, emotions he’d never felt before this moment.

  How could he explain? Would words even matter?

  He placed his hands on both her arms and pulled her gently toward him. She surprised him by remaining silent. Her eyes widened the closer she came. Those tempting lips opened a little more as if preparing for him.

  There was no storm at the moment, no rocking of the ship to blame. She was fully attired and he was certain they weren’t going to die at any moment.

  He lowered his head slowly, giving her a small moment to protest. An instant of outraged virtue. A proper widow still grieving for her husband would surely have made some kind of sound.

  The sailors could see them. The men taking a break from stoking the Raven’s fires, the pilot, even the captain, anyone could glance over and separate their shadows.

  He touched her lips softly with his mouth, testing and tasting.

  She moaned and freed her arms to reach up and entwine them around his neck. Her skirts billowed out behind her as she stepped closer.

  He wanted to feel her. He needed to feel her. He needed to be as close to her as possible, damn all the layers of fabric between them. He could still remember the weight of her breast in his hand, hear her indrawn breath as his thumb teased her nipple.

  Her corset guarded her virtue now, as well as the thought that they were being watched. If they’d been alone . . . If they’d been alone, he would have stripped her bare and had her there with her back to the rail, the waves and the wind as witness.

  His tongue danced along her bottom lip, coaxing her mouth to open more fully. She pressed her body to his, startled him by tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

  He should have gone to Edinburgh before this voyage. He wouldn’t have been so controlled by lust if he had. He should have visited the friend he’d known for years, the woman who welcomed him whenever he appeared. If their union was more of friendship than lovers, he hadn’t complained.

  Nor had he known what he was missing.

  The top of his head was about to explode and go sailing among the stars. He didn’t think he’d ever been so hard. His toes curled. His heartbeat spiked. It hurt to breathe. His fingertips dug into Rose’s waist, wanting to rip the damn co
rset from her, or that ugly black dress.

  At least he could kiss her. He moved his hands to the back of her head, holding her steady for his assault. Let him kiss her until dawn appeared on the horizon, until his lips memorized hers. Let him feel this desire. Let him endure it and suffer it and experience it and know he would never feel this with anyone else.

  “Duncan.”

  He heard her from far away, through the mist and haze of passion. He heard her as if in a dream, one he’d had as a boy when he first imagined being with a woman. He felt her lips against his, her palms on his heated cheeks.

  “Duncan,” she said again, softly and sweetly, calling him back to himself.

  He was aboard the Raven and ­people were still on the deck. They weren’t alone.

  With difficulty, he pulled back, leaning his forehead against hers. He sighed, mustering up an apology.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice sounding rough.

  “Must I? If you must be forgiven, then surely I must, also. Can we not simply dispense with forgiveness?”

  He smiled and took a precautionary step back. “Perhaps it would be better if I weren’t alone with you.”

  “I hope that’s not true,” she said, sending his heartbeat racing. “I like our conversations.”

  Damn it, she did put him in the category of friend.

  “I like your kisses,” she said, further confusing him. “But perhaps it would be better if we didn’t kiss again.”

  “I’m not entirely certain I can promise that. I try never to make a promise I can’t fulfill.”

  She sighed, turned and looked out over the ocean again. The darkness rendered her hair nearly black when it should have been aflame like the sunrise.

  “If I were a cad, I’d blame you,” he said.

  “Me?” She turned to face him again.

  “I’d say that it was your beauty that had me transfixed, that there was something about your smile that fascinated me. That even your conversation was like no other woman I’ve ever known. Of course I had no other recourse than to kiss you.”

  “But you’re not a cad, so what do you say?”

  “That I’m not entirely myself around you. I’m not Duncan MacIain of MacIain Mills. I’m not responsible or sober or the man I’ve always known myself to be. Instead, I’m just Duncan and I want to smile at odd times. I think entirely too much about you, but that’s not your fault as much as it is mine.”

  He reached out and placed his hand over hers where it rested on the rail.

  “I have this wish to comfort you, as if I could take your pain from you and magically erase it. I know something is troubling you, but I don’t know what it is. If I could take the burden from you, I would.”

  “Perhaps you’re the burden,” she said softly.

  He dropped his hand. “Am I?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’d better go to bed now, Duncan,” she said.

  In seconds she was gone, leaving him even more confused than before.

  Chapter 14

  Nassau was located on the island of New Providence, which was only about thirty miles in circumference. Paradise Island, a small island about two to three miles long, lay a half mile to the northwest. The channel between the two islands created a secure harbor for vessels with the freedom to enter from either end.

  They’d flown the Union Jack approaching Nassau and hadn’t been accosted. The British Commonwealth was officially neutral in the American Civil War. Another ship, the Mary Jane, flying no flag at all, hadn’t been so fortunate. As they’d neared the port they saw a Union gunship fire at the smaller ship, water spraying from the bullets missing their target. She flew across the water like a goose, but the gunship had to abandon its pursuit once it entered Bahamian boundaries.

  When they entered Nassau harbor, it was to find several steamers, screw and side-­wheel, at anchor. The Indiana, a ship half the size of the Raven, was discharging her cargo of cotton at the wharf. According to Captain McDougal, she’d been successful in running the blockade more than twenty times. Other ships were in the process of being scraped, a process the captain said would make them faster.

  “Anything to free the hull, sir. Remove any impediments to speed.”

  Another ship, the Betty Anne, smaller than the Indiana, was pocked with bullet holes, a warning about what they might face in the four day voyage to Charleston.

  He was stunned by how active the city was and how filled with ­people.

  “It’s the blockade, sir,” Captain McDougal told him. “The Bahamas have been made rich by the war.”

  Everything he saw seemed to verify that, including the fact that he wasn’t able to procure rooms at the first two hotels they visited.

  When he suggested to Rose that it might be better to deliver her to her friends, she shook her head.

  “I couldn’t possibly simply show up, Duncan. I haven’t informed them of my arrival. I’ll send word tomorrow.”

  “The Viceroy’ll be available, sir,” the driver of the carriage said. “They’re the dearest on the island. None of the soldiers can afford them so they’ll have rooms to let. For the toffs, it is.”

  He didn’t consider himself a toff, and Rose only smiled when hearing the driver.

  The Viceroy, they were told, had been finished only two years ago, billed as the most cosmopolitan hotel in the New World. Yet there was a tree house built around an old silk cotton tree whose branches curved low to the ground before soaring up into the sky. Surrounded by acres of tropical forest and perched on a hill overlooking the harbor, the hotel was truly beautiful.

  The problem was, the Viceroy only had one room left. A suite, he was informed by the supercilious clerk. Unless, of course, the gentleman wanted to share the suite with the lady?

  “I’m Mrs. MacIain,” Rose said, coming forward to the desk. “This is Mr. MacIain. Of course we want to share the suite.”

  As the clerk apologized, Duncan turned to her, on the verge of stating that she could have the suite while he attempted to find accommodations elsewhere. The problem with that idea was while the Viceroy’s rates might be out of the range of most ­people—­and he could attest to the fact they rivaled that of any posh London hotel—­evidently the Blockade Runner Bar was a popular spot.

  He wasn’t going to leave Rose alone in a hotel obviously favored by a great many men.

  The lobby contained men in every type of Confederate uniform, from messengers to generals. Accents he’d never heard before filled the space, until it sounded like the Tower of Babel.

  He suspected that those men not in Confederate uniforms were from the Union, but a little more discreet about their presence. Nassau was, after all, a hub of activity, a haven from which blockade runners made their way to Charleston and other southern ports.

  No, he most definitely needed to protect Rose, even from himself.

  Ever since their kiss, he’d been careful not to stand too close to her. Or to touch her, even in passing. He didn’t want to give her the idea that he was always a lustful idiot around her. Never mind that he was thinking too much of her or that his dreams had become too heated of late.

  There had been a humming tension between them the last week, even during the dinners they shared with Captain McDougal. When she joined him on deck in the evenings, he had to restrain himself not to get too close.

  Now he didn’t have any other option but to sign the register as Mr. and Mrs. MacIain. Technically true, but not in the right sense.

  Declining the use of a porter, he carried both of their valises to the second floor suite. After opening the door with the oversized key, he found himself in the largest hotel room he’d ever seen. Between the sitting room and the bedchamber, they could surely avoid each other well enough in the coming days.

  He wouldn�
�t be in Nassau long. Only long enough to ensure that Rose was safe with her friends, refuel the Raven, and take on additional cargo.

  Behind the sofa was a long table on which was arranged a selection of pastries, a crystal decanter, and two glasses.

  “That isn’t going to be dinner, surely,” Rose said, smiling at him.

  He removed the stopper from the decanter and sniffed its contents. “It’s rum. We’ll both be tipsy in a minute.”

  “I hate to go down to dinner as wrinkled as I am.” She stared down at her skirt with a frown.

  “We’re travelers,” he said. “We’re not supposed to look elegant.”

  “At this hotel?” she asked, smiling. “The Viceroy would accept nothing less.”

  She trailed her fingers across the tabletop.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I should have made the situation clearer at the front desk.”

  “It’s better this way,” he said. “I didn’t like the idea of you being in a room by yourself. Besides, we’ve made it this far being proper.”

  “Yes,” she said, such a simple answer that he glanced at her.

  Did she realize how much effort his restraint had cost him?

  He deliberately looked away, studying the furniture. He was going to be relegated to the settee again, but at least this one was longer. Or he might just become accustomed to the floor.

  He would not think of the bedroom with its huge bed. Nor would he envision her in it, her arms open wide for him.

  Turning, he called out that he’d be back in a few minutes and left the room before temptation overwhelmed his common sense.

  EVER SINCE that night on deck when he kissed her, Duncan had been a perfect gentleman. More than once she’d dreamed of him, and those nightly interludes had been sinful but utterly delightful.

  As she watched the door close, she wondered if what she’d told him about Glengarden had repulsed him. Had she told him too much of the truth?

  The sitting room was spectacular, with pale blue silk walls and upholstered furniture in ivory, matching the draperies. Mahogany tables dotted the space, arranged for a guest’s comfort. An alcove overlooking the harbor held two chairs and a table and provided a spectacular view of not only the town, but the tropical forest around the hotel.