Page 31 of The Indigo Heiress

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In short I will part with anything for you but you.

Mary Wortley Montagu

In his stern cabin aboard the Glasgow Lass , outfitted with all the luxuries his steward could provide—a bowl of citrus, nuts and sweetmeats, smoked fish, spirits, and a stack of more Scots Magazine and Glasgow Mercury than he could read before he made landfall—Leith examined the Philadelphia-made stove he’d had built for the supposed honeymoon suite.

Ships were uncommonly frigid in winter—all but the galley, where the cook held sway. Mounted on stone slabs and sanded to protect the deck, this stove was decoratively lined with blue and white delft tiles, its chimney snaking through the weather deck. The effect was a pleasing heat that extended to the room’s corners, the astonishment and envy of the entire vessel.

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside the fire. Not quite the coal-red hearths of home, but it would suffice for a few weeks’ passage. He’d meant it for the comfort of his bride, but all he’d left land with was a lung ailment and the assurance of war.

The darkness had also followed him, encroaching heavier and blacker than before. It hung about him like a sodden cloak. He hadn’t the strength to push it back, and so it came on like an advancing army, withering his strength. His soul. Cold. So cold. The stove’s warmth failed to reach him.

Mayhap he was dying after all.

“Mr. Buchanan.” A sharp rap at the cabin door preceded the steward’s entry. “There’s been a commotion on deck. I don’t rightly know how to describe it. Someone is requesting permission to come aboard. My apologies, sir.”

At well past midnight?

Leith glanced beyond the six stern windows, where other ships lay at anchor in York Town’s harbor, their flickering lights like stars in the blackness. Stifling a cough, he followed the steward up to the quarterdeck slowly, fighting for each step. The exertion of being on his feet taxed him abominably, but at last he was on deck, the wintry night biting his exposed skin.

The captain stood at the rail, looking down. He pivoted, a bemused expression on his lined face. Without a word, he handed Leith a letter.

Moving toward the glow of a stern lantern, Leith opened the paper to find it blank—save Juliet’s miniature. It lay in his callused palm, bringing back their scorching confrontation.

“The lady is asking permission to board, sir,” the captain said, gesturing to the water.

The lady?

Stunned, Leith went to the rail and looked down. There, in a lighter bobbing gently upon dark water, sat Juliet, her face turned up to him, much as it had been in the snowstorm when she’d been caroling. Tonight she was entreating, almost beseeching. Behind her sat her sister in a scarlet cape, and several trunks.

Was the returned miniature some sort of truce?

Leith coughed, his chest so sore he felt his ribs were cracked. For a long moment he did nothing but stare back at her. Dubious, even dreamlike. It wasn’t a matter of pride. He had none left. He felt turned to stone as the unbelievable present tried to reconcile with the complicated past. Never in the furthest reaches of his thoughts had he considered this might happen. Was she willing to leave the land of her birth to go with him to his own, into the unknown?

Or did she simply seek passage on his vessel?

The yowl of a caged animal interrupted his musings. A cat? He slipped the miniature into his pocket and leaned farther toward her, hands on the rail. “Will you wed me, then, Miss Catesby?”

“I shall, Mr. Buchanan. This very night if you wish.”

Leith turned to a near jack. “Bring her aboard—and all with her.”

Once firmly on deck, Juliet looked to Loveday to see how she was faring. But her sister was only concerned with Hobbes, whose yowling had, for the moment, turned into a more manageable mewling. It was then that Leith Buchanan took her gloved hand. He bent over with a little bow and kissed the soft leather.

With the finesse of a man born to handling business, he led them below deck while issuing half a dozen different orders at once. He summoned the ship’s chaplain. Ordered their luggage to stern quarters. Roused the cook to prepare a late wedding supper and asked that warm beverages be brought. Listening, Juliet stood on the threshold of the heated suite that banished the chill of York Town’s harbor from her bones.

“Our humble quarters, Miss Catesby,” he said, standing to one side while she entered, Loveday behind her. “Your sister will be in one of the adjoining quarter galleries, though she’s welcome here in the great cabin, benefiting from the heat of the stove. There’s also a stern gallery where you can walk about in private if you like.”

“Thank you,” Juliet said with a demure smile, relieved their ordeal was at an end.

Or was it only beginning?

As far as their humble quarters, Juliet took in the space that was sumptuous by any standard, ignoring the pain in her head and her terrible thirst. Another crew member entered with a tray of beverages, including hot tea. She and Loveday sat down while Leith stayed standing, talking in low tones with the captain near the open door.

“Well,” Loveday whispered, “I hadn’t expected a Viking vessel, but this is fitted out like a modern palace.”

“You don’t recall much about our voyage home from school in England, as you were so ill.”

With a shudder, Loveday brought the fine porcelain cup to her lips. “That was years ago, and our quarters were much humbler. I pray this voyage is smoother even if it’s the middle of winter. I do wonder why this ship is still in port.”

“All the details will be revealed to us in time, on both sides.” Juliet knew Leith had as many questions as he had answers. “We seem to have lived a lifetime in just one night.”

Too tired to talk, they lapsed into a grateful silence, finishing their tea near the stern windows just as the ship’s chaplain appeared. With Loveday and the captain as witnesses, the marital knot was soon tied, Leith’s signet ring on Juliet’s right hand, and their signatures inked on some sort of paperwork that she hoped was legal. Once and for all she put her vision of marrying at Royal Vale to rest, burying it beneath a wave of wonder that she stood here beside the tobacco lord she’d once loathed.

As for her groom, Leith looked a bit thinner than she remembered—his coloring noticeably less robust. Illness had carved a concerning line across his brow. But she was no better, clad in disheveled black, lightheaded and still out of breath at all that had happened.

A celebratory toast ensued, and then Loveday scurried to her cabin to set Hobbes free while Leith excused himself so that Juliet could ready herself for bed. Allowed some privacy, she drank in her surroundings like a second cup of tea, admiration overtaking weariness.

Paneled in mahogany, the room was dominated by a desk. Behind the desk was a treasure trove of books in glass-fronted cases, so many tomes it resembled a bookseller’s. All the furnishings seemed to be lashed down with brass loops—including two elegant walnut armchairs with cabriole legs—giving her a premonition of gales to come. The carpet beneath her feet was a lovely, lush blue, akin to the delft stove tiles. Further proof of her new husband’s favorite color.

Forward of the great cabin was Leith’s sleeping cabin. It boasted a bed as well as a hammock suspended from the ceiling. Through yet another connecting door was a dining room, which led to the quarterdeck where they’d come aboard. A washstand near twin bureaus held a much-needed porcelain pitcher of warm water, a basin, French soap, and linen towels. Most astonishing of all was the flushing lavatory in the near gallery.

Juliet began donning her nightclothes and braiding her unpinned hair, trying to put down her trepidation. Would Leith honor what he’d told her originally? Would this be a marriage in name only?

A single candle atop a bureau burned brightly. Wanting to say good night to Loveday, Juliet backtracked to the quarter gallery and opened the door to her sister’s room. Fast asleep. Hobbes curled atop the coverlet at her feet.

Juliet returned to her own bed, climbed between linen sheets redolent of lavender, laid her head upon the pillow, and listened for a particular footfall.

Leith.

Would they hold to formality or exchange forenames as easily as they’d exchanged vows half an hour before?

It took a different kind of courage for Leith to return to his cabin. Had he given his new bride enough time? Standing outside the door, he grappled with what they’d just done. He still didn’t ken what had transpired to have her arrive in the middle of the night, and they were both too worn to discuss it. Several weeks aboard ship would see it all unraveled—and, he hoped, with few regrets.

After a light tap at the door, Leith opened it a crack. The sole candle, almost guttered now, cast light on a slight rise beneath the coverlet of what was, to his mind, a very small bed. Was she asleep? He snuffed the candle, undressed, and washed at the basin, noting she’d been there before him. Clad in a clean nightshirt, he took a last look out the bank of windows.

Weary and unwell as he was, he still willed himself not to cough and wake her. Whisky, lemon, and honey lingered on his tongue from the celebratory toddy he’d just drunk in the captain’s cabin. It stole through him now as he lay down in the linen hammock like a common jack would do. Though he was hardly right beside her, he was close enough to catch a trace of her herbal scent and hear her faint, rhythmic breathing as she lay turned toward him.