An American in Scotland Page 27

  He glanced back at Bruce but didn’t say anything. There was no love lost between the cousins. No respect, either. Duncan, honorable though he was, would not lift a hand to help Bruce, evident from the look he gave the man sprawled on the ground.

  She would always remember what he did next. Duncan stopped in front of Maisie.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Without your help, I would never have found her.”

  Maisie ducked her head but didn’t say anything.

  “Come with us. Come to Scotland with us. You won’t be safe here.”

  Maisie lifted her head and smiled at both of them. “You go on now. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “Please come, Maisie,” Rose said. “I don’t feel right leaving you here.”

  Maisie shook her head. “I can’t leave. This is my home. You go on now, the two of you.” She glanced down at Bruce. “I’ll clean up here.”

  “You risked your life to save Rose. I won’t forget it, Maisie.”

  Maisie only smiled.

  Duncan carried her all the way to the Raven, glancing at her occasionally, his frown growing as he did so.

  “You have three gouges on your face. One looks deep enough to leave a scar. Hopefully, there’s someone on the Raven with the skill to sew it shut.”

  “Do I get whiskey if he does?”

  “All the whiskey in the world,” he said, stopping to kiss her gently on her forehead.

  She was not going to cry now. Not after she’d been rescued, but she was so grateful that she could have wept for days.

  He glanced at her throat. “You’re getting a bruise there. Did he strangle you, too?”

  “He used a rope. He called it my leash.”

  Duncan stopped in the path as if he’d changed his mind about heading for the ship. Instead, it looked like he wanted to go back and pummel Bruce some more.

  “Duncan?”

  He blew out a breath. “I want to beat him, Rose. I’ve never wanted to beat another man in my life. I want to punish him for what he did to you. The faster we can get the hell out of here, the better,” he said. “Which is another thing. I’ve never sworn as much as I have since I met you.”

  She didn’t expect to be amused, not with her throat hurting so much, her knees skinned, and her head pounding. But he sounded so disgruntled, as if his behavior was her fault.

  She knew exactly how he felt.

  “I’ve never been as weepy as when I’m around you,” she said. “Or emotional. I’m normally more focused. If I have a task, I plan it and execute it. Ever since I met you, I’ve been decidedly distracted.”

  He stopped again, staring down at her in what looked to be astonishment.

  “Are you jesting? Surely you’re jesting. I’ve never met a woman so intensely focused on an objective in my life. Who convinced me to sail to Nassau? Who got me to take her to Charleston? Why did I come to Glengarden? I shudder to think what you and my mother will be up to. No doubt the complete overhaul of Glasgow’s tenements.”

  “You have tenements?”

  “And it begins.”

  She bit back her smile.

  “I have a problem,” she said once they were back in the stateroom on board the Raven.

  Captain McDougal had taken one look at Rose and volunteered the use of the ship’s medical kit, which Duncan had accepted. He’d also suggested that they take advantage of the skills of one of the shipmen who had once been a sailmaker. Stitching her cheek closed did not sound like a pleasant experience, but it was better than dying in the cold house.

  “A problem?” he said. “That’s never a good start to a conversation.”

  She sat on the end of the settee as he cleaned the cuts on her face, all the while uttering a surprising array of oaths half beneath his breath.

  Strange, but the stateroom and the parlor had become more home to her than any other place since she left New York. Even after the near disastrous storm, she still felt safe on the Raven. Granted, Captain McDougal was an exemplary captain, but she knew her comfort on the ship had to do with Duncan’s presence more than anything else.

  He made her feel not only safe, but cherished. She knew he would never do anything to hurt her. Nor would he tolerate her being mistreated by anyone else. She mattered to him, and that knowledge gave her a constant warm glow. Or maybe that was simply being in love.

  Did love make you want to smile all the time? Did it make you wish to weep as well? Her emotions were all jumbled up, but a look from Duncan was all she needed to simplify everything. He mattered to her, too. What he wanted, what he thought, what he felt, were important to her, which was why she would bring the problem to him.

  She’d never before had anyone with whom to share her concerns. Nor would she think of going behind his back. Duncan had a core of decency on which she could rely. Together, they’d figure out what to do.

  “It’s more in the way of a moral dilemma,” she said.

  He sat beside her, took her hand and squeezed it.

  “You don’t wear your gloves anymore.”

  “Why should I? You’ve already seen my hands.”

  He brought her to tears by what he did next. He kissed each separate finger as if anointing each one of her scars.

  She cupped his cheek with her other hand, wishing she had the words to tell him what she felt. Were there words capable of explaining? He accepted her, all the scarred parts, all the flaws and failings. He didn’t chastise her, didn’t lecture, only listened in an attempt to understand.

  That was Duncan. He heard ­people. He listened to what you had to say. He might not always agree, because they had challenged each other more than once. But he had never once ridiculed her ideas or refused to consider them because she was a woman. She wondered if it was being a Scot, or simply being Duncan.

  “When we took the cotton to Charleston,” she said, “the first warehouse we took it to only had room for three hundred bales. The second could accommodate the rest, seven hundred bales. Maisie said that she thought Bruce only brought home three hundred bales. That means there’s still seven hundred in Charleston.”

  “Is she sure?”

  “I don’t think she counted it, but after the weeks of taking the cotton to Charleston, she’d have a rough idea of how many bales he had.”

  “Maybe he knows about the warehouse, but he has other plans for the cotton.”

  “I don’t think he knows, not after what he said. He didn’t have any idea of the size of the crop, so he wouldn’t have known how many bales we produced.”

  “And your moral dilemma is whether you should let him know?”

  “A little bit,” she said. “I’m not inclined to tell Bruce anything. I never want to see the man again. Besides, if I tell him, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t burn them, too, to celebrate some Confederate victory. Or donate them to the Confederacy. In the meantime, everyone suffers.”

  She took a deep breath. “Here’s what I want to do,” she said. “You gave me enough to pay for five hundred bales up front.”

  “Which you’ve given back.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you suggesting that I add to the gold to make it enough to pay for seven hundred bales?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what? Give Bruce the gold, but not tell him why we’re giving it to him? He’d consider it charity, Rose, and I can almost guarantee that he’s fool enough to dump it in the river. It seems like the only thing my cousin has inherited from his Scottish ancestors is his stubbornness.”

  “Not Bruce,” she said. “Someone else. Someone with the sense enough to use it wisely, to get Glengarden through the end of the war.”

  “I don’t like the idea of going behind anyone’s back,” he said.

  She bit back her disappointment.

  “Except in this case,” he added. �
��I’d rather shoot my cousin than give him a helping hand, especially after what he did to you. How certain are you that the cotton is still there?”

  “I know Maisie didn’t tell anyone about the second warehouse. I know it’s not here. So I’m relatively certain, but without checking, I can’t guarantee it one hundred percent.”

  “What about the owner of the warehouse? Will there be any trouble obtaining the cotton?”

  She pulled out the certificate from her valise. “This is my receipt. It’s the only document we’ll need.”

  “Bruce didn’t need it.”

  “That’s because the owner didn’t follow the law. I can’t see him doing it a second time.”

  “A lot of speculation, Rose.”

  She nodded.

  “We can go back to Charleston and check ourselves,” he said. “Or we can assume it’s there and proceed in that fashion.” He sat there silently for a moment before speaking. “If it were under different circumstances, I’d advise that we choose the former course of action, but I have the feeling that the faster we leave Glengarden for good, the better.”

  She nodded again.

  “Who do you intend to give the gold to? Not Claire.”

  She shook her head. “Maisie. She’s remained at Glengarden to care for Susanna. She’s taken on the cooking and other duties on her own. If anyone could be said to be responsible for the house, it’s Maisie, more than Claire or Susanna.”

  “After what she did today, I’m inclined to give Maisie anything she wants. Maisie it is.”

  Before she could thank him, he leaned over and kissed her. For a few moments all thoughts of cotton, Glengarden, and being stitched up flew from her mind.

  MAISIE CIRCLED the body of the man she used to call Master. The blow Duncan dealt him had knocked him out all right. The rest was up to her.

  In the year Bruce had been at war, life had gone on at Glengarden. It would never be idyllic. There were too many memories, like the grave beneath the old oak alongside the river. They had buried her daughter and her dead baby there, never even asking for permission. Some things should not have to be asked.

  Some things should not happen.

  By a shielded lantern, they’d dug the grave at midnight. They’d said their prayers as they lay Phibba in her shroud with her child in her arms. There she still lay, never disturbed, never discovered, until the day when the Earth would end and heaven’s justice came to them all.

  She visited the oak at least once a day. Sometimes she sat in the crook of the branches, in the hollowed-­out spot where Phibba liked to sit sometimes, staring out at the river. Or when Rose had begun to teach her to read, to study the book that had become her prized possession. Once in a while Phibba had even read the story to her, and she’d nearly wept with pride that her daughter was being educated.

  Had her daughter dreamt of freedom? She had it now, didn’t she?

  Sometimes she knelt on the other side of the tree with her hands pressed flat against the earth as if to absorb some of her child’s and her grandchild’s spirit into her soul.

  She rarely prayed there, because God was already there. He’d given her the strength to stand in front of the man she called Master and give him the appearance of respect. He’d given her the power to live until this day.

  The day she never thought would come to pass.

  She grabbed Bruce’s unconscious body by his lone foot. “You sure do weigh less without two legs. Maybe I should say a prayer of thanks to the Yankees?”

  She dragged him backward to the door to the cold house. The key was still in the lock.

  Bruce was stirring, his eyes opening and shutting as if he was having a hard time figuring out where he was. Once she dragged him down the four steps, though, his head bouncing on every one, he was out again.

  She pulled him to the middle of the cold house, leaving his sprawled body on the dirt floor.

  “Don’t you worry, Bruce. You’ll be feeling fine in just a little while. All the pain will be gone. Just like my Phibba.”

  She closed the cold house door and locked it. Bruce wouldn’t be whipping anyone again. He wouldn’t be threatening another human being. Nobody be calling him Master no more.

  God forgive her, she couldn’t prevent the surge of joy when she removed the key from the lock.

  When he came to, he’d start to shout. He’d demand that someone come, but nobody would hear him. His mother wouldn’t venture down from her room to look for him. Claire probably didn’t even know where the cold house was. Little Gloria wasn’t allowed near where the slaves used to be.

  Nobody would hear him because the cold house was designed that way. Wasn’t that why he shut up Miss Rose in there all those times?

  She didn’t know how long it would take for him to die. Maybe a day or two. Or maybe longer, like ten days. Maybe after that time she’d see a falling star, indicating that another soul didn’t make it through the pearly gates. Maybe it would even be his soul she saw.

  She knew she’d never see her Phibba again in heaven because of what she was doing. A thousand prayers would not make God forgive her. But some things needed to be done and even God knew that. He might not approve, but certainly He understood.

  She walked slowly down the path to the river.

  Something Michael had recited to her made her think of Bruce at the time. The deeds men do live after them.

  In years, perhaps, or less than that, someone would find a way to open the cold house door. By then Bruce would be a skeleton. No one would know what happened to him, but surely everyone would remember why.

  Chapter 28

  They weren’t going to leave Glengarden until morning, a decision Captain McDougal accepted with his usual tact.

  Rose’s injuries were treated all the while Duncan bit back his rage. She had only drunk about a quarter of the bottle but she refused to make a sound while the sailor sewed her face in two places, each tiny stitch causing Duncan to flinch. Then there was the matter of Rose’s reaction to good Scottish whiskey. His soon-­to-­be-­wife was very amorous when drunk, a bit of information he tucked away for later.

  That afternoon, after she’d had time to sleep off her intoxication, he tucked her up in the chair in the parlor and handed her a pouch of gold.

  The chair brought back memories of a night of terror and temptation. She’d been on his lap, all curves and warmth, clad only in a nightgown and wrapper. She’d kissed him or he’d kissed her or it had been a mutual decision based on carnal feelings and unbridled fear.

  He’d not been able to forget the feel of her entwined around him for days.

  “This is a great deal of money,” she said, hefting it in her hand.

  “Even if we lost it all, it’s been a very profitable voyage.”

  “I know I trust Maisie, but you’ve only known her for a day.”

  “She saved your life. I’m inclined to give her the world for that. Besides, I wouldn’t throw a bucket of water on Bruce if he was on fire. Nor do I trust your sister.”

  “Unfortunately,” she said, “I think you’re right.” She frowned at him. “Remember, I’m not the least like my sister. Do not expect total obedience.”

  He grinned at her.

  How had he managed to fall in love with a woman so like the other women in his family? Determined, perhaps stubborn, certainly opinionated. Odd, how she just showed up on his doorstep. Otherwise, he would have had to go halfway around the world to find her.

  “I think the war is coming here,” she said, staring down at the pouch.

  “I’m surprised it hasn’t already. The Union wants Charleston harbor very badly. It probably has something to do with Fort Sumter or maybe just to stop the blockade running.”

  “If the Union army came here, what would they do to Bruce?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there’s some honor among s
oldiers. Since he’s been so grievously wounded in the war, perhaps they’ll leave him alone. But Glengarden? I don’t know what they would do to the plantation. War brings out the brutality in ­people. Maybe it provides them an excuse for it. Why preserve something when you can destroy it?”

  She glanced up at him. “You don’t think I want to marry you because I have nowhere else to go, do you?”

  That idea had never once occurred to him.

  “You can always go and live with your second cousin in Massachusetts,” he said.

  She nodded. “You’re right. I could. Or I could get a job as a governess, even in England. ­People might consider it novel to have an American governess. Or I could go and stay with Olivia. She seemed very sympathetic.”

  “Especially since she helped you board the Raven.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked in surprise.

  He shook his head, intent on returning to her more important question.

  “I would hope that the only reason you would want to marry me is because you fell in love with me. But if it isn’t, I still want to marry you.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t,” she said, frowning at him.

  “I shouldn’t?”

  She shook her head. “You’re a handsome man, Duncan MacIain, and a good one. Good right down to your toes. You care about ­people. You’re concerned about them. You listen to them. I doubt if you’ve done anything mean or vindictive in your life. You’re decent. You would never lie to get your way.”

  “You make me sound as proper as a bishop.”

  Should he tell her that he wasn’t nearly as easygoing as he used to be? He’d found passion with her, and while it surprised him, he was also fond of the person he was becoming.

  He felt fundamentally altered, as if a part of him, never given life, had been born over the last weeks. A better man, perhaps, one who felt more, experienced more. Colors seemed brighter. Smells were more distinct. Emotions were deep and there, right on the surface. All because of Rose.

  “You shouldn’t accept anything but the best.”

  “Oh, but I have. Her name is Rose O’Sullivan.”