Page 24 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

“Oh, Hughie ,” Marjorie cooed, “I couldn’t possibly set foot on such a filthy boat.”

“Hughie?” Cormac muttered. He began to pull away, so she leaned in, gripping his arm more tightly. He scanned the harbor and its bustle of people, and then shot her a wicked look. “’Tis known as a ship, Gormelia , not a boat.” He hadn’t bothered to pitch his voice lower.

She frowned. Cormac would be harder to bait than she’d thought.

Shielding her eyes from the glare, Marjorie took in the massive vessel at the end of the pier. Of the ships newly docked in Justice Port, only two were large enough to accommodate a hold full of slaves: the Oliphant and the Venture .

She’d thought the Venture had sounded the likelier of the two for nefarious dealings, but subtle inquiries and a few strolls nearby had turned up nothing more suspect than a gaggle of missionaries bound for the tropics.

They wandered toward the Oliphant instead, and as they approached, she stared, goggle-eyed.

As a resident of Aberdeen, Marjorie had seen ships before, but as a gently bred woman, never had she dreamed of seeing one this close.

It was vast, with three masts, a battery of cannons, and a belly easily broad enough to accommodate a cargo full of slaves.

A shiver ran up her spine. Davie.

The Oliphant was grand indeed, and she felt sure Davie was on board. She stared, trying to imagine where he might be and how they might get on board to save him. They were close now, and the thrill of it was exhilarating.

The ship buzzed with activity, an entire world unto itself.

Sailors busily loaded supplies, wheeling carts and rolling barrels aboard, preparing for what appeared to be a long voyage.

There was so much hustle and bustle, if their initial plan pretending to buy slaves failed, surely there was some way she and Cormac could simply sneak onto the ship and find him.

On deck, sea-weathered men shouted orders, cleaning, scurrying, and most startling of all, climbing. “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing to the men clambering up amid the sails. “There are men up high. They look so tiny and faraway, like wee birds flying up the ropes.”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “I’m certain Davie is on board. I can just feel it. How I wish we could just storm aboard this instant and get him.”

She glanced up at Cormac, and the blank look on his face squelched her excitement.

“They’re called lines,” he told her flatly. “Not ropes. Lines . ’Tis the ship’s rigging.”

“Oh.” They continued to stare, quiet for a moment, and then she sighed, “ Rigging.” Marjorie shook her head as though dumbfounded. “Oh, Lord Brodie , you are so very wise. Indeed, the cleverest of all men. I thank you for enlightening your dimwitted bride.”

His lip twitched. A smile?

She appreciated the gravity with which Cormac approached their mission, but they were so close now, there was no reason it couldn’t be an adventure they shared.

Last night’s laughter over his Bridget story had been too great a pleasure—she wanted more.

Marjorie decided she’d get her ill-tempered Lord Brodie to smile before the day was through.

“But what a name,” she said, turning her attention back to the ship. “Oliphant?”

“Aye, like that comb in your hair.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“Ivory, lass. Tusks . . . ivory. Oliphant, as in . . .” His voice petered out, and she felt as much as heard his distraction.

“You mean ele—?”

“Ist.”

Normally she might have badgered Cormac for so rudely ordering her to silence, but that had been before her last visit to the docks. Every muscle in her body froze, except for her heart, which thudded powerfully in her chest. Not again.

She eased closer to him, grateful she had his arm to hold. At least she wasn’t in men’s trews this time.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “A man stands behind us.”

Moving was the farthest thing from her mind. In fact, merely breathing had become an effort.

“I daresay, you two make an unlikely pair of visitors.”

Cormac stiffened at the sound of the stranger’s voice.

“You’ve taken a fancy to the Oliphant , I see.”

Placing a steadying hand at her back, Cormac slowly faced the newcomer. The man was not much older than forty, solidly built, with dark hair. And, Marjorie realized, he wasn’t unattractive. He had quite a pleasant face, really. Smiling, her shoulders eased in relief.

Cormac, however, remained tense at her side. “You are . . . ?”

“Why, I suppose I could ask the same thing.” The stranger broke into a broad smile, which he aimed right at Marjorie.

Frowning, Cormac sidled closer to her.

“But it is you who are the newcomers to my wee corner of Aberdeen, and so I shall be the one to bid welcome.” He swept a bow. “Malcolm Forbes. Aberdeen bailie, at your service.”

“I am Hugh Brodie, and this is my wife, Lady Gormelia.”

The sincerity bled from her smile. That ridiculous name.

“Forbes,” Marjorie exclaimed, the pieces falling into place. He must be the one who was a friend of Archie’s father. “But of course I’ve heard of you.”

While she returned the man’s smile, Cormac’s hand slid to grip her waist. Firmly.

She cursed her eager—and unthinking—response. She’d heard of Forbes because she hailed from Aberdeen. Lady Gormelia, however, could claim no such thing. She decided to amend the error at once. “Are you the Forbes from Lanarkshire?”

She’d caught Cormac’s grimace, and she stood a little taller. She thought hers a fine enough ruse, as ruses went.

“Oh dear no,” the bailie said. “I and my five magistrate peers all hail from Aberdeen.”

“Did you hear that, my little trout?” Cormac said tightly. “Aberdeen has six bailies. Truly we’re far from the banks of the Clyde now.”

Little trout? Little trout ? Did he just call her his little trout ? She could concede that referring to him as Hughie might be construed as goading, but the maddening man just raised the stakes.

“Ah, you’re Lowlanders, I see.”

“Aye, from a village east of the Clyde,” Marjorie said. “But not for long—”

“Not for long, however,” Cormac interrupted, “as we find ourselves on the brink of a great move. My wee trout here”—he gave an exaggerated squeeze to her shoulders—“has a sister who just married into a Jamaican coffee plantation.”

Marjorie shrugged, attempting to jostle Cormac’s arm from around her shoulders. Clearly, he wanted to speak for both of them. The thought that he might believe her incapable of sustaining their drama vexed her.

“Jamaica. Of course,” Forbes said with a knowing nod. “Croydon, is it? I’ve an uncle who’s spent much time in the Indies.”

Marjorie saw Cormac’s jaw tighten. They were on dangerous ground. They’d armed themselves with rudimentary information about the coffee business in the West Indies, but they’d also known that nothing could prepare them for the detailed questions that would invariably arise.

She decided that, as a woman, her mistakes would be seen as excusable, expected even. The notion galled her, but she dove in all the same. “Yes, in Croydon. My brother-in-law will be pulling Hughie in as a partner.”

“Aye,” Cormac broke in quickly. “’Twas most generous of my in-laws. Though it’s a bigger enterprise than I’ve ever faced before. ’Tis why we came here . . . for . . .” Cormac looked meaningfully at the ship.

“Ah. You’ll be wanting introductions, of course.” A smile spread across the bailie’s face. “I’m hosting a dinner tomorrow, and I insist you come. There will be folk in attendance whom you must meet.”

“I’d be honored.” Cormac glanced down at Marjorie and gave her an assessing look. She imagined she saw a warning in his eyes, and it rankled. “Though I imagine yours isn’t an affair for women.”

She glared back up at him. “But Hughie ,” she said through gritted teeth, “I would simply adore dining with the bailie.”

“And so you shall,” Forbes said merrily.

“Wives are most welcome at my affairs. In fact, you’ll have much to discuss with the other women.

It’s a whole new world in the Indies; there will be much for you to prepare for, my lady.

There is the intense heat, for one. And such a remarkable variety of flora and fauna! ”

“Oh! Flora and fauna?” Marjorie clapped her hands. Hughie’s little trout wasn’t done yet. “How uniquely fortuitous! My husband does adore our feathered kin.”

“Truly?” Forbes looked taken aback.

“Truly,” Marjorie replied before Cormac had a chance to. She avoided his gaze and the daggers she felt pointed her way. But really, she couldn’t abide being silenced or shut out.

“Any particular . . . species?” Forbes asked Cormac. “That is the correct phraseology, is it not?”

Marjorie wrested the attention back to her. “Rare varieties of duck are an especial favorite. A veritable duck expert is my husband. Isn’t that right, Hughie?”

She finally spared Cormac a glance, deciding he looked not unlike a cat ready to pounce. He managed a tight twitch of his head, which she imagined could be construed as a nod.

“Ducks . . .” Forbes mused. “Are there ducks to be found in—?”

Marjorie didn’t know the first thing about ducks.

Nor did she, at the moment, know just how she might go about bringing her extemporaneous ramble to a close.

“Oh, sadly it’s no more ducks for Hughie.

My Lord Brodie finds himself eager to move on.

He’s greatly anticipating recording the various tropical species found in the Indies. ”

She and her foolish temper had her talked into a corner. Forbes seemed to be formulating a question, and the prospect alarmed her.

Just when she began to worry that Cormac was going to leave her hung out to dry, he chimed in. “That’s quite enough about me, trout . I’m certain our new acquaintance has no interest in the banalities of my pastime.”

He gave a patronizing—and, she’d daresay, overly firm—pat to her arm.

Forbes looked visibly relieved. “Well, I must admit to a dreadful lack of knowledge where . . . uh . . . birds are concerned.”