An American in Scotland Page 20

  His sympathies went to Rose. In order to be comfortable, she had removed her petticoats and hoop. The trade-­off forced her to remain in the stateroom with the door propped open a little. At least on deck there was a hint of a breeze, if you could ignore the heat of the punishing sun.

  Captain McDougal gave the order for the firemen to stoke the engines. The Exeter, a steamer only about half the size of the Raven, began to fall back a little at a time. They were no match for the Raven’s speed. Finally, the Union ship dropped out of sight.

  Without Olivia’s warning, they would have been boarded and captured. He didn’t know if he was insulted or angered by Baumann’s actions. The man couldn’t firebomb the ship as he’d tried in Glasgow. Nor did he have a ship the equal of the Raven, so he had to resort to underhanded measures.

  As night fell, so did the temperature. The breeze was cool, but there was an increased sense of danger.

  He looked for traces of smoke as they sailed through the moonless night. Captain McDougal had been cautious there, too.

  “It’d be suicide to run the blockade with soft coal as fuel, sir,” Captain McDougal said that morning. “We might as well paint a target on the Raven’s smoke stacks. I’m not happy that we had to leave a day early, but we should be all right.”

  Talk on deck was forbidden unless it was the slightest of whispers. No light was allowed, even in the cabins. He couldn’t see any of the other sailors, but he knew they weren’t far away. The pilot stood not ten feet from him, but might as well have been invisible.

  He peered into the night, feeling as if every nerve were concentrated on the blackness before him. He felt blind, rendered helpless by the absence of light.

  If captured, he didn’t know what their fate would be. It was entirely possible that the Raven would be seized first while explanations came later. He didn’t fool himself that his Scottish nationality would save him. If nothing else, the contents of the hold—­munitions from the London Armory Company—­would demonstrate his intention to supply the Confederacy.

  What would happen to Rose? She was from New York, but she’d been living in South Carolina for the last two years so she might be classified as an enemy to the Union as well. Most of the crew was Scottish born, but that hadn’t helped his cousin’s brother-­in-­law. Neville Todd had been English and yet was held in a Confederate prisoner of war camp for nearly a year.

  He’d never thought himself selfish and perhaps that wasn’t the word. Insular, then. His thoughts and concerns had always been narrowed to include his family and the mill. Maybe that’s why he’d never married. He’d never found anyone important enough to take the place of either in his mind and affections.

  What was it that Rose had once asked him? Something about a woman fascinating him enough that he’d do something contrary to his nature—­that was it. Did this count? Almost every action he’d taken since meeting her had been contrary to the man he’d known himself to be.

  All it had taken was a certain redhead with a determination to succeed to walk into his house and captivate him from the first look.

  Yet until Rose, he’d never worried as much about what might happen. Borrowing trouble, that’s what Mabel might say.

  When a loom went down at the mill, no one got excited. No one panicked. It was expected that, at any given time, every loom would stop working. They kept extra parts on hand for just such a contingency. If he couldn’t fix it, after a lifetime around looms, then another repairman could.

  He handled the rest of his life like that, trying to plan for problems. He didn’t have any idea how to do that now.

  He’d thought that the best way to protect Rose was to keep her in Nassau. He was beginning to learn that whenever one of his plans came up against Rose’s determination, it would be a challenge to see who was ultimately successful.

  Now was not the moment to second-­guess his actions, but he was doing so nevertheless. He was racing toward recklessness and he’d never been a man to do so. But from the very beginning, from the moment she’d come into his life, he’d begun to change.

  He was no longer the level-­headed MacIain. Look where he was now, creeping toward war, expecting cannon fire from shadow ships dotting the horizon. They were, perhaps, all fools to be on the Raven, but he was the biggest fool of all.

  He’d always been the one to whom ­people had looked for guidance, for rational behavior. He’d plotted the course of his life with responsibility as the tiller. His heritage had been paramount. His word, his name, his promise, had meant something.

  Glynis was no longer the rash one of the family. His sister had always had a core of practicality, one that was set aside whenever Lennox was involved. Then, she was passionate and feckless and irresponsible.

  He was acting with the same idiocy about Rose, and it didn’t look as if it were getting better.

  He moved into the stateroom, only to find that she had gone into the parlor. The door was open there, too.

  “I can’t stand closed places,” she said.

  He knew why after her story about the cold house.

  Without a light, the parlor was black as the grave. He made his way to the settee, grateful that he didn’t trip over anything on the way, and sat beside her.

  “My English cousin is blind,” he said. “I never thought how difficult it must be for him to get around.”

  “By touch, I think,” she said, reaching out her hand for him.

  He clasped Rose’s fingers, feeling the chill of her skin, wondering if she, too, felt the anxiety in the air. Their speed had slowed a little but they were still flying over the waves.

  “Will it be like this all the way to Charleston?” she asked, her voice lowered so it didn’t carry.

  “I thought to ask you that,” he said, smiling. “You’ve run the blockade once.”

  “The outbound voyage was almost dull,” she said. “There wasn’t even a hint of another ship.”

  “Then let’s hope that it’s the same for us. As dull as unbuttered toast.”

  “A boiled egg,” she said.

  “A politician’s speech.”

  Her giggle made him smile.

  “Oh, I couldn’t top that one,” she said.

  She leaned against him and he put his arm around her. He was content to hold her for the entire night if necessary.

  “If we had some light, we could play cards. Do you know any games we could play in the dark?”

  “Hide and seek?”

  “I’m afraid we’d both lose,” she said. “We’d never find each other.”

  “Blind man’s bluff? Grandmother’s footsteps?”

  “Stop. You’ll make me laugh and then Captain McDougal will hear and be angry at me.”

  He took her hand and helped her stand.

  “There’s one way to occupy ourselves,” he said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Come to my bed, dear Rose.”

  He wished he could see her expression.

  “Do you think that’s entirely wise?” she whispered. “To lose ourselves in love when we’re in such danger?”

  “My dear Rose, I can’t imagine a better time.”

  He placed a kiss on her forehead and went to the parlor door to close it.

  They walked to the stateroom together, stopping for another kiss at the door. He shut the door to the deck, then came back to her side, wishing that he could see her.

  Being with her, making love with her, meant more because it was Rose. He knew her heart, knew the depth of her courage, and the love of which she was capable.

  How did he tell her that he admired her more than any woman he’d ever met? Or perhaps more than any other person?

  He smoothed his hands from her shoulders to her wrists, then up again to her throat. He bent his head and kissed her cheek, finding his way to her lips unerringl
y, slowly, patiently.

  When he pulled back they were both breathing quickly. He smiled as he began to unfasten the buttons of her dress.

  “When it’s time,” he whispered, “and you put away your mourning, what color will you wear?”

  “Yellow, I think. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Blue,” he said.

  “Then I’ll wear yellow one day and blue the next.”

  “Right now I’d prefer that you weren’t wearing anything.”

  “Oh.”

  She helped him remove the dress and he was grateful she’d already dispensed with the hoop and her petticoats. Her corset was loose, thank heavens. In minutes she was naked on the bed.

  Turnabout was only fair play and he removed his own clothes in half the time it normally took him to disrobe.

  He lay down beside her, propping his head up on his hand. They were in total darkness, but the memories from Nassau gave him sight.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said. “I love your breasts.”

  “Do you?” She sounded like she was smiling.

  “And your feet.”

  “My feet?”

  “Your feet,” he said. “You have beautiful feet. I especially like your big toes.”

  She raised her head up as if to see her feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever given my feet any thought at all.”

  “Well, you should. They’re exquisite feet.”

  “Perhaps I should go without shoes.”

  “At the very least. Only when we’re alone, however. I wouldn’t want you to incite lust in other men.”

  She giggled again and he smiled.

  “I like your chest.” She placed her hand flat on his chest. “It’s very manly.”

  “I should hope so.” He cupped one breast. “You’re very womanly.”

  “I should hope so,” she said.

  His fingers traced her smile. His hand stroked from her shoulder, down her arm to her hip. His fingers splayed across her stomach, up to rest between her breasts.

  Her hand reached out and gripped his wrist.

  “Kiss me, Duncan,” she said. “I get lost when you kiss me. I forget anything and everything but you. Even running the blockade.”

  “It’s the same for me,” he said, bending his head and placing a soft kiss on her cheek. “You must be touched with Scottish magic.”

  “Irish,” she corrected.

  “I think you’re more Scottish,” he continued, smiling against her lips, “with red-­gold hair and a temper to match.”

  He knew he would always remember these moments in the midst of danger. ­People were chasing them, obstacles lay before them, yet laughter tinted their lovemaking.

  The night was touched by enchantment. Her body was so responsive to his. He’d never been as captivated by anyone or as concerned for her pleasure.

  When she erupted in his arms, only then did he allow himself release, the effort of holding back making his heart race and his breath shallow. He calmed with her arms around him, her hands stroking his damp back, her kisses dotting his face.

  He lay at her side, gathering her close.

  “I love you, Rose O’Sullivan.”

  His declaration was met by silence.

  In the past, whenever he thought about meeting the woman with whom he wanted to share his life, a moment like this had never occurred to him. Nor had he ever considered that his future wife would be complicated, complex, and unlike anyone he’d ever met.

  Winning Rose’s heart would not be an easy task and he didn’t expect it to be now, even after making love to her.

  Perhaps it was Fate’s way of mocking him after so many years of not being interested in falling in love. His mother had hinted, more than once, that he might want to consider marriage. Glynis had been even more direct.

  “You have to make yourself available, Duncan. How is any woman to know you’re on the marriage mart if you make yourself a hermit?”

  “I am not making myself a hermit, Glynis. I am simply doing what must be done. It’s called the press of business.”

  She had folded her arms, frowned, and tapped her foot on the floor. She’d done the same when she was eight and annoyed at him.

  “One day it will hit you like lightning, Duncan, and you won’t be able to think about the press of business. You won’t be able to think about anything else but the woman you love.”

  He smiled and wondered what Glynis would say if she knew that day had come.

  THE SECOND and third days of their voyage were uneventful. The pattern was the same. They occupied themselves during the day as best they could. The night shift of the crew slept belowdecks, preparing themselves for their silent watch.

  Each night, he and Rose retired to their bed, taking advantage of the darkness. Pleasure had never bound him, but it was winding an inexorable ribbon around him now. When he thought back to this adventure, these nights with Rose would be the highlight, not the ever present sense of danger.

  Tomorrow they would make Charleston, which meant that no one slept. Tonight the danger was at its peak.

  The night was black, silent, and oppressive. The darkness pressed down against him, pushing him up against the rail. The only light to be seen was above him. Stars dotted the sky like sentient observers of human nature.

  Rose stood beside him, his hand holding hers as if to keep a connection between them.

  He nodded toward the sailors, silent and watchful.

  Were they near the blockade fleet? Had they been surrounded by them? Or had Captain McDougal sailed around them? They’d seen three ships tonight, but he’d sensed that they had doubled back more than once, the route to the South Carolina port made longer because of their maneuvers.

  The blackness of the ocean, combined with the darkness of the sky and the utter silence as the Raven slowed made him feel like he was entombed. The only life touching him was Rose’s hand in his and her soft breathing.

  Her mourning dress matched the night. He suddenly wanted to see her hair, a flame as bright as fire.

  He wanted to speak to her, to reassure her in words that had not yet been born in his mind. Instead, he reached out and pulled her to him until he stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her.

  Time inched by. Coal dust floated down on them in the calm, no doubt sticking to their skin and their garments. He didn’t move or suggest they return to their dark and stifling cabin. He wanted to see what they faced rather than simply wait for it, unknowing.

  He’d never known a night to be so long.

  “The fleet is close,” Captain McDougal had said a few hours earlier. “If we’re seen, we can outrun them, but I’d rather we weren’t seen.”

  So did he.

  The sea wasn’t as rough as it had been on the crossing to the Bahamas, but neither was it placid.

  He didn’t know how long they stood there watching, but finally the darkness seemed to lessen on the horizon, as if a reticent sun was being coaxed to rise. At the same time, he saw a trail of smoke, his eyes tracing back to its source, a steamer nearly as large as the Raven and clearly visible.

  “I’m terrified,” she whispered.

  “Think of puppies or kittens.”

  “Puppies or kittens?”

  “Something to take your mind off what we’re doing.”

  She moved closer to him, and for an instant he wondered if they had the ability to read each other’s thoughts. He knew exactly what she was thinking about, the last nights they’d spent in passion and then holding each other.

  He tightened his arms around Rose, wished to hell she’d listened to him and remained in Nassau. How did he protect her now?

  “Naught to worry over yet,” said a voice at his side.

  He turned to see the pilot, the man barely visible in the faint light of an oncoming daw
n. The man would see them into Charleston harbor.

  “Might be a ship just like us,” he whispered. “A blockade runner, not one of the Federals.”

  “How will you know? Will you signal her?”

  The pilot shook his head. “Any signal we’d send, a Federal ship could see as well. No, we’ll just have to wait to see what she does.”

  The next ten minutes were tense, making him wonder if the crew on the other ship felt the same. When the steamer made no move to get closer and seemed to grow smaller, he realized she was sailing in the opposite direction.

  “We’ll have no problem making port now,” the pilot said. “The captain’s given the order to drive ahead. By dawn we’ll see Fort Sumter.”

  As Duncan grabbed Rose’s hand and left the deck, he supposed he said something, a polite word of thanks, a comment of appreciation for the knowledge the man had shared. He was conscious of two things: gratitude that they’d made it, and dread at the idea of finally meeting his American cousin.

  Chapter 22

  The pilot expertly guided the Raven into Charleston harbor. Within hours they were moored at a wharf and unloading their cargo.

  He’d already made a profit on the voyage, given the munitions they’d brought in, most of which would be shipped by rail to either Augusta or Richmond, hubs for Confederate supply lines.

  Duncan obtained a wagon, which was the only available means of transportation, and Rose gave him directions to the warehouse.

  The destroyed lighthouse should have given him some clue, but Duncan’s imagination had him think that Charleston resembled Nassau, a prosperous city made even more so by the success of the blockade runners. He’d expected strolling crowds, the sound of laughter, and signs of commerce.

  What he got was a soot-­covered scene out of a nightmare. Churches were gutted; buildings were razed. Sometimes, only a column was left from a structure that might have been a store or a bank. The roads were littered with broken bricks. Spires stuck up into the sky supported by two walls.

  Life had ceased in this part of Charleston.

  “I thought you said the war hadn’t reached you,” he said, looking around him.