“True. And this voyage promises to be a memorable—”
“Oy! Chen!” Captain Cuthie’s voice rang across the deck.
Both Kieran and Chen turned toward the sound.
Cuthie scowled down at them from the forecastle. “I’m not paying ye two to chat like debutantes at their first ball. Save your blethering for the lasses when we dock in Plymouth. Chen, I’ve a problem up here I need your eyes upon.”
Chen looked at Kieran—giving the barest of eyerolls to express his opinion of Cuthie’s often heavy-handed leadership—before walking off to speak with the captain.
Just beyond Chen, Mr. Andrew Mackenzie and Lord Rafe Gilbert stepped onto the deck. The two men saluted Kieran and then wandered over to speak with Dr. Alex Whitaker and Mr. Ewan Campbell who were standing near the main mast. The four men were the only non-crew aboard ship—the ones who directedThe Minervaon her current expedition of biological discovery to the South Pacific.
Mr. Mackenzie, a wealthy man of business and avid naturalist, had financed this voyage with the aid of a group of aristocratic investors. The other men had come aboard as assistants to him—Lord Rafe, as a fellow biologist and friend; Dr. Alex Whitaker, as a physician to the two men; and Mr. Ewan Campbell, as a talented artist who would draw their finds.
Kieran liked all four men, and intuition told him they would become good friends before their journey ended. They were all Scots, after all. Right now, they laughed at something Mr. Campbell was drawing, the men standing on tiptoe and leaning in, looking far too much like eager children. Kieran grinned along with them. Mr. Campbell was something of a giant, towering over everyone else. The poor man was constantly having to duck and contort himself in order to fit into the cramped quarters aboard ship.
Kieran turned his gaze back to James Fyffe. He had hardly spoken to the lad, even though they were three days out from Aberdeen harbor now. As master ofThe Minerva, Kieran was in charge of the ship’s navigation, as well as ensuring she was outfitted and in ship-shape condition at all times. If Captain Cuthie was the ship’s father, Master Kieran MacTavish was her mother.
Consequently, Kieran had greeted James when he came aboard, just as he did all new recruits. As ship’s master, Kieran didn’t wish to be seen as playing favorites. And then, he had been so busy with supply orders and assisting the crew during the first days out of harbor, he hadn’t had a moment to properly speak with the lad.
Or rather, whenever Kieranhadfound time to speak with James, the boy was nowhere to be seen. It was almost as if the lad were avoiding him, but that thought was ridiculous. Why would James Fyffe be avoiding him?
Kieran owed the boy a debt of gratitude.
The boy’s father, Captain Charles Fyffe, had been a father figure when Kieran had been orphaned at just nine years old. Much of the success of Kieran’s career was due to Charles’s insights and assistance.
“Here. This is for ye.” Charles slipped a handful of banknotes into Kieran’s pocket.
“I cannae accept this. You’ve already done too much—”
“Ye may have a new position aboard that frigate, but ye need to look the part, Kieran. Buy yourself a new coat. Ye can repay me later.”
Kieran swallowed. “I can never repay ye, Charles.”
“Of course, ye can,” Charles chuckled, his light-gray eyes striking against the backdrop of his weathered face. “I’m almost in my dotage, and I’ve two children at home who may need a helping hand someday.” He nodded toward the banknotes. “Consider that insurance, if ye will.”
Kieran swallowed and nodded. “I will absolutely honor this debt, my friend. Thank ye.”
Kieran shook off the memory.
Across the deck, James struggled to lift a coil of rope out of the way.
Kieran chuckled, his feet already moving to help. The poor lad. He was small and rather underfed. His trousers hung loosely, as if they had once belonged to a larger boy. Or, perhaps, James had recently lost weight.
“Here. Let me help ye, lad.” Kieran reached down and lifted the heavy rope out of the way. “This rope is almost as large as yourself.”
James lifted his head, a pair of wary, silvery eyes studying Kieran from under a thick mop of blue-black curls. Unusual eyes. The boy definitely had Charles’s coloring, though not the former captain’s rugged features. The lad was nearly delicate, by comparison.
Granted, it was hard to tell.
James Fyffe was utterly filthy. Grime streaked his face and his hair matted in clumps.
“We need tae get ye a bar of soap, James,” Kieran smiled. “Less than a week at sea, and you’re already fit for Newgate.”
Kieran thought to make the boy laugh.
Instead, James flushed under the dirt. The boy looked away, but not before Kieran noted something hard and angry in the lad’s gaze.
“I meant to jest,” Kieran continued. “Though at some point, I’m sure the captain may request ye bathe yourself.”
