An American in Scotland Page 18

  Had George’s influential father found him some assignment here in Nassau to escape the fighting?

  “Hello, Mr. Breton,” she said, forcing a smile to her face.

  “I saw you and couldn’t believe my eyes. ‘You must be mistaken,’ I told myself, but no, here you are, Rose O’Sullivan. What are you doing in Nassau? Enjoying the sights?” He glanced at Duncan. “Or even more than that?”

  He’d been present at some events in her life she would like to forget. Like the first time she’d been forced to witness a slave being whipped. Had he been there when it happened to her the first time? Bruce had made her flogging public, an object lesson for both the slaves and the inhabitants of Glengarden. She couldn’t remember, but she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  At least he hadn’t stripped her naked to her waist, but allowed her to wear her shift. Not a blessing after all as it turned out, because it had taken hours to remove the bits of cloth from her flesh. Phibba had cried the whole time.

  Duncan stood and moved to stand slightly in front of her.

  “You’ll show some respect, I’m thinking.”

  Duncan was a Scottish dragon with the burr of his homeland in his voice. A dangerous tone, and one she’d never heard from him before this moment. She hoped George had the sense to recognize his own peril.

  George chuckled. “Who would you be to tell me what to do?”

  “No one you know,” Duncan said. “Perhaps it would be best if you were on your way.”

  The two men locked eyes. Duncan was taller, with broader shoulders, and a physique she knew well after last night. His arms were muscled, as were his legs, and his chest . . . she’d kissed every single well-­defined muscle from his neck to his waist.

  He was more than George’s match and the other man seemed to know it.

  He glanced at Rose. “You never answered me, Miss O’Sullivan. What are you doing in Nassau? Does Bruce know you’re here?”

  Time stilled. No, time disappeared. She was frozen, left to remain in this exact position for all of eternity. ­People might come and stare at her statue a hundred years hence, poking at her and wondering at the woman with the wide eyes and look of horror on her face. What was she doing here? Was she waiting for a ship to arrive? Had she just received news that a sweetheart she was desperate to welcome home would never be coming?

  Duncan turned to her, his movements altered by time as well. She could see his frown, the questioning look in his eyes. See, too, his mouth open, but the words never made it to her ears.

  She was going to faint again. This time not from hunger or exhaustion but from fear.

  The words sat dormant on her lips, and she pushed them out, hearing them make their way to George.

  “Have you seen Bruce recently?”

  Please God, don’t let him be in Nassau.

  “He’s back at Glengarden,” he said. “Didn’t you know?”

  George was still talking. She was hearing the words, but they weren’t making sense.

  “He was injured?” she said.

  George nodded. “He lost a leg.”

  With any other human being on the face of the earth, she would have felt instant compassion. With Bruce she felt nothing.

  “When?” she asked, the word nearly impossible to say. She cleared her throat. “When did he return?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  She’d been in Scotland or on her way. She’d been blessedly ignorant. Thank God she hadn’t known.

  Soon, Bruce would know everything she’d done to free his slaves. Soon, he’d know about the cotton. Everything she’d done to this point had guaranteed her own destruction.

  Without a word, she stood, pushed past both men and headed down the steps of the tree house and back to the hotel.

  Glengarden Plantation

  South Carolina

  “NO, CHILD, don’t pat them too thin. They’ll burn when we put them in the oven.”

  Maisie smiled down at Gloria. The little girl was going to take after her Aunt Rose with her reddish gold locks, but her face was a combination of Claire’s beauty and Bruce’s determination. The child had her father’s stubbornness, too, and if someone didn’t curb her temper she was going to grow up to be as much of a devil.

  Maisie had taken the last of the sugar she’d hoarded and made a sort of sweet hoecake for Bruce’s birthday. Two years ago the whole plantation had celebrated as he’d ridden over his land like Jesus come again. The men who were smart put their hands over their hearts and bowed their heads. Those who hadn’t yet learned either stared straight ahead or looked at their master. They didn’t know it, but they’d just been marked as uppity and punishment was sure to come.

  There wasn’t anybody left to stand and worship Bruce. Nor was there a horse for him to ride. If somebody didn’t do something soon there wouldn’t be any food, either, except for charity or what Benny stole.

  The Lord didn’t like stealing, but she couldn’t imagine that the Lord liked starving, either, so she only nodded last week when a hog appeared in the empty barn. Or a chicken or two found its way into their empty chicken yard. She didn’t know if Benny was really that good at stealing or someone was giving them charity. Nobody at Glengarden ever said anything about the chicken stew or the fried chicken or the ham steaks. They just seemed to think she could pray on it and it would appear.

  When they were lucky and they were biting, there were fish, too, but she was getting mighty tired of fish, especially without any cornmeal or flour to fry it up.

  Bruce hadn’t said anything about the food and that wasn’t a good sign. Normally, he wanted to know everything, but he hadn’t asked any questions. Not even about Rose, which worried her. He’d accepted the news that she’d gone off to visit friends. An out and out lie she’d told when Miss Claire just shrugged and said, “I don’t know where Rose went. You know how she is, Bruce. She does what she wants when she wants.”

  The fact that Miss Rose had gone off to try to sell all the cotton they’d stored in the Charleston warehouses wasn’t mentioned. Nor did anyone talk to Bruce when he stood on the veranda and stared at the fallow fields. This time last year the cotton had been halfway close to harvest.

  She’d thought Bruce a cruel man before he left for war. She’d thought that war might purge him of some of his hate, but it seemed to have added to it. She avoided him when she could, and when she couldn’t, she never lifted her eyes above the ground. She had learned over the years.

  “I want one now!” Gloria said.

  “You can’t have one now, child, they’re not finished cooking. Wait just five more minutes, that’s all.”

  She leaned down and cupped the little girl’s cheek in her hand. The contrast in their skin was remarkable, but other than that, there weren’t too many differences between them. They lived on a plantation that was dying—­anyone could see that. Their futures were uncertain. Soldiers might come invading any moment.

  “Don’t touch my child.”

  She looked up to see Bruce standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He leaned heavily on his two crutches. Pain had etched a story on his face, one that made him less handsome.

  “Sorry, Master Bruce,” she said, dropping her gaze to the kitchen floor. Made of dark red brick, she’d kept it spotless ever since she’d taken on the duties in the kitchen.

  “You’ll never touch my child again, do you understand?”

  She nodded her head. “Yes sir, Master Bruce.”

  She didn’t see the crutch until it struck her on the arm. Years of practice kept her from crying out and she didn’t raise her head.

  “See that you don’t.”

  “Make her give me a hoecake, Papa,” Gloria said. “She won’t. She’s mean.”

  “Give her what she wants.”

  She knew better than to argue, so she simply opened the oven, used a sp
atula to scrape the half-­done hoecake from the pan and deposited it on a plate. Gloria took one look at it, wrinkled her nose, and immediately clambered down from the stool where she’d been sitting.

  “I don’t want it. It’s ugly. I want oatmeal cookies.”

  “We don’t have any oatmeal, child. Or raisins. Or sugar. Or flour.”

  Her recitation had fallen on absent ears. Gloria was off, racing after her father.

  Perhaps the two were more alike than she thought. If that were the case, Glengarden was truly doomed.

  Nassau, Bahamas

  DUNCAN WATCHED as Rose walked away. Everything in him demanded he go after her and comfort her. First of all, he wanted to find out about Bruce.

  “I’ve never seen you at Glengarden,” George said.

  “That’s because I’ve never been there. I’m a relative, though. Duncan MacIain.”

  “Ah, the barbaric side of the family,” George said. “I’ve heard tell of you Scots. All kilts and bravado. No wonder you and Rose were together.”

  He wasn’t a violent man, but this was the second day in a row he was ready to fight. Something about George made him clench his fists and step forward, halting only when the other man threw up both hands, palms toward him.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “It’s just that you and Rose looked, what is the word, simpatico? A surprise, really, since Rose hasn’t been known to be exceptionally friendly. Perhaps I misjudged her?”

  At that point George made the bad mistake of leering. Duncan’s fist was planted in the other man’s nose so quickly it didn’t even require thought. George staggered backward, both hands pressed against his face.

  He turned and left without another word. So much for getting more information about Bruce.

  Losing a leg wouldn’t slow down a tyrant or make a kind man out of a bully. He’d known men who’d changed their trajectory in life, true. It’s why he hired some of the men he had at the mill, trying to help them get back on the right path. A hand up didn’t mean a hand out. A man had to want to try to better himself and participate in the process. If they didn’t make every effort on their own, he had no patience with them.

  Yet the men he’d helped, and the boys Lennox had made apprentice shipbuilders, weren’t men without moral fiber. They’d either never gotten a chance to rise above their circumstances or they’d gotten turned around somehow. They hadn’t been like Bruce MacIain, handed every advantage in life and never utilizing it for the benefit of others.

  He swore as he felt his knuckles swelling. He’d see if he couldn’t find some ice before returning to their room.

  George’s revelation had made the conversation to come even more difficult and Rose’s cooperation urgent.

  Chapter 20

  “Are you all right?” Duncan asked when he entered their suite.

  Rose was standing at the window staring out at the harbor.

  “You have to let me come with you, Duncan. I have to get back to Glengarden.”

  “Why, especially now that Bruce is back? He’ll blame you for his slaves leaving, Rose. He’ll blame you for everything.”

  “I know.” The barest smile curved her lips. “Me first, then the Yankees, and finally God. But I have to go back. I have to get Claire out of there.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to come, Rose, have you ever considered that? What has she done to protect you? Why are you so determined to save her?”

  “There’s every possibility that Claire will refuse to leave, especially since Bruce was wounded, but I have to try. Wouldn’t you do the same for Glynis? Wouldn’t you insist on helping her no matter what she said or did?”

  “I’ve never been able to change Glynis’s mind about anything. In that, she’s as stubborn as you.”

  He speared his hand through his hair, trying to find some way to explain what he was feeling to her.

  “If you saw your child run out in front of a carriage, Rose, wouldn’t you try to stop him? Or would you allow your son to be crushed to death because he wanted to cross the street?”

  Her smile was fixed. “So that’s what you think of me? That I’m a child?”

  “No, of course not. I just can’t see you returning to Glengarden.”

  “So you’ll be like Bruce, refusing to hear my reasoning, refusing to allow me to do anything. Who’s the tyrant now, Duncan?”

  “If I promise to deliver the gold to Bruce, will you stay behind in Nassau?”

  “No. I’ll find passage somehow.”

  “What if Claire decides to come with you? Where will you go?”

  For the first time she looked uncertain.

  “You said yourself that you wouldn’t be welcomed back in New York. Where will you live?”

  “There’s a second cousin in Massachusetts who once offered me a home. Maybe she’ll take us in.”

  “Two women and a child? Isn’t that pushing charity a bit far?”

  “Maybe Ireland,” she said, shocking him. “I’ve relatives of my father there. Somewhere.”

  “Come to Scotland,” he said. “You could make your home in Scotland. You already know ­people. Family.”

  “I’m not your family.”

  No, not now, but he was going to do everything in his power to make sure she was.

  He’d only known her for a few weeks. Was that long enough to know he was in love? How long does it take to know that his life would never be the same without her?

  It would take him four days to run the blockade to Charleston and four days back, barring any bad luck like being intercepted by a Union ship. A day, perhaps two, to unload their cargo and the same amount of time to load the cotton. He’d be gone twelve days total.

  “Wait for me here, Rose. I’ll be back for you in less than a fortnight. Please.”

  Instead of answering, she turned back to the view of the harbor.

  He walked to her side.

  “I want you to stay with Olivia,” he said, handing her the card.

  “Olivia?”

  “Olivia Cameron, although she’s going by the name of Peterson now. She’s Lennox and Mary’s mother.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “She left Scotland quite a few years ago. Evidently, marriage didn’t agree with her.”

  “She was William’s wife?” she asked, staring down at the card.

  “She’s also a Union operative,” he said. “So be careful what you tell her, especially about the Raven. She warned me about the danger we’re in, but she might be willing to tell the Union about other details of the ship.”

  “What danger?” she asked, frowning at him.

  “The Exeter will be arriving in the next day or so. There are plans to try to take command of the Raven.”

  “That’s why you and Captain McDougal looked so secretive.”

  He put his arms around her carefully, giving her a chance to rebuff him, but she turned into his embrace and put her arms around his waist, leaning into him.

  “I don’t want to leave you, Rose,” he said softly, “but I can’t lead you into danger, either. Please stay here and wait for me. Please.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “The minute we have our customs papers approved.”

  She stepped back and looked up at him.

  He thought they would have one more night together, but she walked away from him and into the bedroom. When he followed her, she was packing the last of her things into her valise.

  “I’ll go and stay with Olivia,” she said.

  She didn’t look at him as she grabbed her valise, passed him and opened the hotel door.

  “Will you wait for me?” he asked. “I’ll come back for you, Rose. Will you be here?”

  She turned and looked at him. He knew that he would remember the sight of her standing there for the rest of hi
s life.

  “Why?” she said. “Why would you come back for me?”

  The words were pulled from him as if they had a life of their own.

  “Because I care about you,” he said. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

  She closed her eyes and then opened them. He hadn’t expected her to shake her head or walk away in response to his declaration.

  The sound of the door closing was too loud and too final.

  Would she even be here when he returned?

  HOW DARE he send her off with such a declaration. He cared about her? He wanted to make sure she was safe? How could he possibly have said such a thing to her?

  She didn’t know if she was angry or sad or simply confused. No, she was most definitely a combination of all three.

  Rose knocked on the door of Room 115.

  She held herself still, her face impassive. She would at least make an appearance of doing what Duncan wanted until she could obtain passage on another ship. Arguing with Duncan had only convinced her that he had a wall of stubbornness in him. Talking to him hadn’t accomplished anything but make him even more certain of the rightness of his cause.

  What Duncan didn’t understand was that one person really couldn’t protect another, especially in this time of war and destruction.

  The only place to be perfectly safe was in a prison or a grave.

  The door opened suddenly, revealing an older woman dressed in a gown of pale yellow with gold cording, the hoop so large that it occupied most of the doorway. The bodice was cinched tight, her bosom spilling over the décolletage. If she hadn’t known that Olivia was Lennox’s mother, Rose would have thought her much younger than she was.

  “You’re Duncan’s Rose,” Olivia said.

  “I’m not sure I’m Duncan’s Rose, but my name is Rose,” she said. “Rose O’Sullivan.”

  Olivia smiled at her. “Thank heavens, a woman with backbone. I’d thought the poor boy had fallen in love with some foolish, helpless thing.”

  She was ushered into the room, motioned to a pale green upholstered settee, offered refreshments, which she declined, and divested of her valise.