When the old man had died fifteen years ago, and his wife a few years after, Mac had sort of adopted the surviving children, even though he was only seven years Clinton’s senior. But then he’d always been close to the family. He had watched the children grow, had been there to give them advice when the old man wasn’t, and had taught the boys—and, the truth be known, Georgina, too—most of what they knew of ships. Unlike their father, who had only stayed at home a month or two between voyages, Mac could let six months to a year go by before the sea called to him again.
As was usually the case when a man was devoted more to the sea than to his family, the Anderson children’s births could be marked by their father’s voyages. Clinton was the firstborn and forty now, but a four-year absence in the Far East separated his birth from Warren’s, who was five years younger. Thomas wasn’t born for another four years, and Drew four after that. And Drew’s was the only birth the old man had been there to see, since a storm and severe damage to his ship had turned the old man back to port that year, and then one mishap after another had kept him home for nearly a year, long enough to witness Drew’s birth and get started on Boyd’s, who was born eleven months later.
And then there was the youngest and only girl in the family, with another four-year difference in age between her and Boyd. Unlike the boys, who took to sea as soon as they were old enough, Georgina was always at home to greet each ship when it returned. So it wasn’t surprising that Mac was so fond of the lass, having spent more time with her in her growing years than with any one of her brothers. He knew her well, knew all her tricks for getting her way, so it stood to reason that he ought to have been able to stand firm against her latest outlandishness. And yet here she stood next to him at the bar of one of the roughest taverns on the waterfront. It was enough to make a man return to the sea.
If Mac could be grateful for anything, it was that the lass had realized right off that she’d gone a wee bit too far this time with her crazy notions. She was as nervous as a spaniel pup, despite the dirk she had hidden up her sleeve, with a mate tucked in her boot. And yet her confounded stubbornness wouldn’t let her leave until Mr. Willcocks put in an appearance. At least they’d managed to conceal her femininity fairly well.
Mac had thought that would be the stumbling block that would keep her from coming with him tonight, but unbeknownst to him, the lass had done some clothesline raiding in the wee hours of the night to be able to show him her disguise this morning when he got around to mentioning that she’d need one, but that they didn’t have the money to spare for it.
Her delicate hands were hidden under the grubbiest pair of gloves Mac had ever seen, so big she could barely manage to lift the mug of ale he’d ordered for her, whereas the patched breeches could have used a lot more room in the seat, but at least the sweater covered the tightness in that area—as long as the lass didn’t raise her arms, which hiked the sweater up. On her feet were a pair of her own boots mutilated beyond repair, enough to pass for a man’s pair that should have been thrown away years ago. Her sable-brown curls were tucked under a woolen cap, pulled down so low it covered her neck, ears, and her dark brown eyes, too, as long as she managed to keep her head lowered, which she did.
She was a sorry-looking thing, to be sure, but in fact, she blended in better with this bunch of wharf rats than Mac did in his own clothes, which weren’t fancy, but were certainly of a better quality than anything these rough-looking sailors were sporting—at least until the two upper-class gents came through the door.
Amazing how quickly the out-of-place could quiet a noisy room. In this case, only some heavy breathing could be heard and—perhaps by a few—Georgina’s whisper.
“What is it?”
Mac didn’t answer, nudging her to be silent, at least until the tense seconds passed while everyone took the newcomers’ mettle and decided they’d best be ignored. Then the room’s noise gradually rose again, and Mac glanced at his companion to see that she was still working on being unobtrusive by doing nothing more than staring down at her mug of ale.
“It isna our mon, but a couple of lairds, by the bonny look of them. An unusual occurrence, I’m thinking, fer such as them tae be coming here.”
Mac heard what sounded like a snort before the quiet whisper, “Haven’t I always said they have more arrogance than they know what to do with?”
“Always?” Mac grinned. “Seems tae me ye only started saying such six years back.”
“Only because I wasn’t aware of it before then,” Georgina huffed.
Mac almost burst into laughter at her tone, not to mention such a blatant falsehood. The grudge she bore the English for stealing her Malcolm had not lessened any with the end of the war, and wasn’t likely to until she had the lad back. But she bore her aversion so genteelly, or so he’d always thought. Her brothers had been known to rant and rave with some very colorful invectives about the injustices inflicted on Americans by the British, perpetrated by the governing nobility, and this long before the war, when their trade was first affected by Britain’s blockade of European ports. If anyone still bore ill will toward the English, the Anderson brothers did.
So for more than ten years, the lass had heard the English referred to as “those arrogant bastards,” but she hadn’t cared so much then, would just sit back and quietly nod agreement, sympathizing with her brothers’ plight but not really relating to it. But once Britain’s highhandedness touched her personally with the impressment of her fiancé, it was a different story. Only she still wasn’t hot-tempered about it as her brothers could be. Yet no one could doubt her contempt, her total antipathy for all things English. She just expressed it sopolitely.
Georgina sensed Mac’s amusement without seeing his grinning face. She felt like kicking him in the shin. Here she was shaking in her boots, afraid even to lift her head in this crowded hellhole, bemoaning her own stubbornness for bringing her here, and he found something to be amused about? She was almost tempted to have a look at those dandy lords, who no doubt must be dressed to the gills in colorful foppery, as their ilk tended to do. She didn’t for a moment think that Mac might be amused by what she’d said.
“Willcocks, Mac? Remember him? The reason we’re here. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble—”
“Now, dinna be getting snippy,” he gently chided.
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I just wish the fellow would hurry up and make an appearance if he’s going to. Are you positive he isn’t already here?”
“There’re a few warts on cheeks and noses, as I can see, but none a quarter inch long on the lower lip of a short, pudgy, yellow-haired lad of twenty-five or thereabouts. Wi’ such a description tae go by, it isna likely we’ll be missing the mon.”
“Ifthat description is accurate,” Georgina thought she’d better point out.
Mac shrugged. “It’s all we got, and better than nothing, I’m thinking. I wouldna like tae be going ’round tae each table here and asking…Laird, help us, yer curls are slipping, la—!”
“Shh!” Georgina hissed before he could get that damning “lass” out, but her arm went up immediately to tuck in the falling locks.
Unfortunately, her sweater hiked up in the process, revealing the tightly encased derriere that didn’t by a long shot pass for boy’s or man’s. Just as quickly it was covered again when she put her arms back on the bar, but not before it was noticed by one of the two well-dressed gents who had previously caused such speculation when they’d arrived, and now sat at a table only six feet away.
James Malory was intrigued, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. This was the ninth tavern he and Anthony had visited today, searching for Geordie Cameron, Roslynn’s Scottish cousin. He’d just heard the story this morning of how Cameron had been trying to force Roslynn to marry him, had even kidnapped her, though she had managed to escape.Thiswas the reason Anthony had married the girl, to protect her from this scurrilous cousin, or so Anthony claimed. And yet Anthony was determined to find the chap, to impress him with a sound thrashing, enlighten him with the news of Roslynn’s marriage, and send him back to Scotland with the warning not to trouble her again. All just to protect the new bride, or was his brother just a little more personally involved than that?
Whatever the true motivations that drove him, Anthony was sure he’d found his man when he had seen the red-haired chap at the bar. Which was why they were sitting so close to the bar, hoping they might overhear something, since all they knew of Geordie Cameron was that he was tall, red-haired, blue-eyed, and unmistakably Scottish in his speech. This last was revealed a moment later when the chap’s voice rose slightly in what James could have sworn was a scolding for his short friend, but all Anthony noticed was the thick Scottish brogue.
“I’ve heard enough,” Anthony said tersely, swiftly rising to his feet.
James, much more familiar with dockside taverns than Anthony, knew exactly what could happen if a brawl started. In seconds, the original combatants could be joined by the entire room. And Anthony might be a first-rate pugilist, just as James was, but gentlemen’s rules didn’t apply in places like this. While you were busy fending off the blows of one man, you were likely to get a shiv in the back from another.
Envisioning just such an occurrence, James grabbed his brother’s arm, hissing, “You’ve heard nothing. Be sensible, Tony. There’s no telling how many of these chaps in here might be in his pay. We can bloody well wait a little longer for him to leave the premises.”
