“’Tis not treason if you speak the truth.” Thomas leaned a shoulder against the door. “Now, my lady, we were talking.”
“Were we? I thought we were about to kiss.”
His gaze became hooded. “You mistake.”
“Nay, you were thinking about kissing me. I could see it in your eyes.”
“About why not to kiss you, more like.”
She smiled smugly. “Be that as it may, I am glad that you are at least speaking to me. You’ve been very distant since we came on ship.”
He was quiet a moment. “I was. I thought it safer for the both of us. We’ll not win an annulment unless you remain a maid, and I have difficulty remembering that when you are near.”
Put that way—especially when combined with his grudgingly admiring glance—’twas quite a compliment. She peeped at him from beneath her lashes. “And now?”
“Now I’ve decided that anything is better than leaving you to fall prey to Montley’s tutelage.” He regarded her for a moment, absently rubbing his chin. “Milady, I think what we need are rules.”
“Rules? For what?”
“For your behavior. Something simple, yet useful in knowing where to draw the line with knaves such as Montley. You are a scribe; why don’t you write these rules down? Once we have them fixed, we will all breathe easier.” He motioned for her to sit in a chair by the windows that kept the cabin bright and airy.
“Hmph. I don’t know if I agree to your idea of rules, but I’m willing to listen.” She sat, noting that while the chair was bolted to the floor, the cushions were snuggly and soft.
Thomas took the chair opposite, the sun glistening off the tanned skin of his throat. “If we know what we expect of each other, then there won’t be any more misunderstandings. Four or so rules should suffice.”
It was obvious that he already had some specific rules in mind. She nodded. “Then there will be two for you and two for me.”
“For me? That’s not what I was thinking.”
“Surely you didn’t expect me to have rules whilst you have none?”
“God’s breath, woman! There’s no need to make this complicated.”
“I have no wish to make this complicated, but I do demand that it be fair.”
He scowled. “’Twould be easier were you less fair and more agreeable.”
“Alas, the fates did not bless me so.” She held her pen over the paper. “Begin.”
“I’m trying to decide how to word this.”
“Then I shall go and—”
“Nay, give me a moment!” His lips twitched. “I begin to fear what rules you have in mind.”
She grinned. “I think you’re going to dislike them.”
He chuckled and leaned back, more at ease than Fia could remember seeing him. “Rule one: no dancing on the deck.”
“None?” she asked, her humor fleeing.
“Nay.”
She nibbled on end of the quill. “What if we just write ‘No Italian dances.’? Robert says they are more lively than the others.”
“No. None.”
She sighed and wrote the phrase. ’Twas inconvenient to her plans, but she supposed she could work with Robert on some other area of her instruction. “Very well.”
“Rule number two: no com—”
“Nay!” she interrupted. “’Tis my turn to make a rule.”
His gaze narrowed, but he inclined his head. “So speak, Mistress Impatience.”
“Very well: no more shouting.” She wrote it in her elegant scrawl.
“Shouting? I don’t sh—” He must have realized that his voice was lifting with each word, for he grimaced. “I don’t shout. I merely make my requests in a firm voice.”
She waved the quill in his direction. “Be that as it may, now you must use a more reasonable voice. We are now to rule three; ’tis your turn.”
“No more conversing with Lord Montley,” he answered promptly.
“I see. And just what should I tell him? That you’ve forbidden me to see him?”
“Nay, not that. He’d pester me until my ears bled and my stomach burned.”
“If you forbid me to speak with Montley, I’ll have to tell him why. ‘Twould be rude otherwise. Perhaps you should think of a different rule?”
For a moment she thought Thomas might disagree, but then he nodded. “Fine. You may talk to Montley. So long as you know the man’s a bounder and a scoundrel.”
“’Tis rather obvious, I think.”
“Aye, well, there are many ladies of the court who have yet to realize it.” He rubbed his chin. “For my next rule I think I’ll say, no parading about the deck flirting behind your fan, no giggling, and no wearing clothes that”—he gestured vaguely—“fit.”
“That is more than one rule.”
“No, it’s not. ’Tis a broad sweep, but ’tis still just one rule.”
She lifted her brows.
He sighed. “Fine. How about we simply say, ‘No public displays.’”
She rolled her eyes. His new rule actually encompassed the no-dancing one, but she wasn’t about to point that out. The fewer rules she had to follow, the better. She made a show of writing the rule across the page.
“Now ’tis my turn,” she pronounced.
He nodded and eyed her warily. She rested her chin on her hand and stared out the window, her mind awhirl. She would have liked to add “More kisses.” She wanted to feel the pressure of his lips sliding across hers. She cast a quick glance at him, only to see those warm brown eyes fixed on her with unnerving regard. She blushed and hurriedly dipped her quill into the ink.
“What have you decided?”
She flashed a grin and wrote in a large, firm hand, “More smiles.”
“Smiles?”
“Aye, I’d like to see a bit of merriment from you. ’Tis unnatural, the way you glump about.”
“I don’t ‘glump.’ I’m not even sure what that is.”
“Mary says ’tis a sign of an ill liver, but I’m more inclined to think ’tis a sour stomach.”
“Neither my stomach nor my liver is ill,” he said, his brow furrowed.
Fia looked at him and pointed to the fourth rule.
He grimaced but, after a moment, bared his teeth in a false smile. “There.”
“Much better,” she said with an encouraging nod. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“Yes, it does, but I shall do it anyway, if only to keep you from displaying your ankles before my crew.”
She peeped up at him, her lips quirking. “I had no idea my skirts were cut so short.”
“’Twasn’t your skirts but your decorum that was lacking.”
“I can only be glad my husband was there to offer correction,” she said in a prim voice that was patently false.
Thomas’s stiff smile softened. “You are an impossible chit.”
“Och, that is exactly what Duncan says, too.” She examined the paper. “Should we sign this to make it official?” She held out the quill.
He took it and the paper and signed his name with a flourish. “And now you, my lady.” He handed her the pen.
She dipped it back into the ink and then went to sign her name. Just before the nib touched the paper, she paused. “We’ve not listed a forfeit. What if one of us doesn’t follow this agreement?”
He smiled, then rose and stood behind her. Leaning over, he closed his large, warm hand over hers and guided the quill slowly through seemingly endless loops. She stared in wonder where he had written in an exaggerated script, If either doth forfeit, then their virtue is at risk.
“Virtue? But . . . do you have any left?” She blinked up at him, her eyes wide.
He chuckled. “You had better pray, my little Scottish thief, that you never find out.”
Chapter Fifteen
Robert watched as Thomas strode across the deck. “Forsooth, I don’t know what’s come over Rotherwood. He’s been acting odd the last three or four days.”
“Odd?” Fia a
sked from where she was sitting decorously on a barrel by his side. “How so? I think he’s been more pleasant of late.”
“Exactly. He’s been pleasant, even charming. I wouldn’t recognize him, except that he occasionally reverts to his usual surly disposition. Then I know him.”
Fia was most pleased with Thomas’s efforts to follow their rules. He moderated his tone when speaking to her and they’d had several very pleasant conversations. It strained him, but no more than it strained her to behave like an old woman.
It chafed her very soul. If it weren’t for the fact that she had to behave thus only for the time it took to reach London and perchance a day or two beyond, she might have exploded. Whenever she felt too caged, she’d take Zeus for walks through the hold, wending through the crates and barrels and ending in Thunder’s makeshift stall.
For his part, Thomas not only moderated his snappish tone but, as he’d promised, was making an effort to smile. Judging from the strain in his gaze, Fia suspected it cost him dearly, and she did what she could to encourage him. Sometimes she was able to tease him until a genuine laugh overtook his false one.
It was in those moments, when they were both grinning ear to ear, that Fia’s heart gave that odd jump that was becoming familiar whenever Thomas was around. She did what she could to fight that warm, breathless feeling, though she feared ’twas larger than she.
It was a good thing Thomas had no idea how devastating his true smile was. Had he realized it, he’d have flashed it more often.
“And you,” Robert continued in a grumpy tone, “have refused to learn any new dances.”
“My ankle is sore.”
“Yet you do not limp.”
“It only aches when I spin upon it, not when I walk.”
Robert clearly did not believe her.
She pulled a card from her hand and attempted to tuck it beneath the mug, but the wind whistled, ruffling the cards. “The sea is high today.”
“There will be a storm before the night’s out.” Robert frowned. “We’re taking the shore route to London so there’s more of a chance for storms.” He frowned at the racing gray clouds that streaked the sky overhead.
They played a half hour more until the wind made it impossible to use the cards. Thomas appeared briefly to escort Fia belowdecks, ordering two of his men to secure all of the trunks to the metal rings set into the walls and the plank floors.
He then ordered Mary to escort Fia to his own cabin, where they would be more comfortable. Large shutters had been fastened over the windows, and Fia’s two extra trunks were already lashed to the walls.
After hooking an astonishing array of netting about the bunk and telling her and Mary to climb inside it when the storm grew more violent, he’d left. When the waves grew wilder, it became impossible to sit in a chair even while gripping the arms. They’d staggered to the bed and had just been ready to climb inside the netting when a crew member had appeared to inform Mary that Angus had fallen and hit his head, and Mary had left.
On the bunk, Fia listened to the wildness of the storm, both excited and fearful. The heavy netting kept her securely on the mattress and she clung to it, saying prayers for their safety and absorbing every moment of the experience to use in a future play.
For what seemed like hours, she stayed in the bunk as the ship rose on the crest of one wave and then slammed downward into the base of another. Over her own fear, she worried about Thomas until her stomach tied in knots. The thought of him on the deck, exposed to those huge waves, made her almost ill. She wondered if Robert was on deck, too, assisting Thomas. Earlier, Robert had helped her secure Zeus and Thomas the rabbit in the hold with Thunder. She had piled up a mound of hay so that all were snugly ensconced in a comfortable nest. Robert had promised that once the ship hit rougher seas, Thunder would lie down and serve as an anchor for the others. Please, God, let my wee animals be well, too.
There was nothing to do but lie there and wait. Fia tried to sleep but she couldn’t rest, wondering if the ship might sink and if Thomas was in danger. Restless and worried, she found herself holding the pouch that contained the amber amulet. Had the White Witch arrived at Duart Castle by now? What might she do when she discovered her prized jewel missing? Fia shivered, glad she wasn’t Duncan. He might scoff at the old magics, but she would never dare.
She pulled the amulet out of the pouch and examined it in the flickering light of the lamp bolted to the wall by the door. The amulet felt oddly warm and she pressed it to her cheek, the long chain draped about her arm as she settled back on her pillows. Oddly, the warmth of the amulet soothed her fears, and though the ship seemed to creak louder and the waves beat even more ferociously, she soon slipped into a deep slumber.
In her dream, she was walking through a house she’d never seen—large, impressive, decorated with rich tapestries and mahogany furniture heavily embossed with gold, the tables covered with gold plate embedded with jewels. Through large open windows she could see a slow-moving river, the green grass rolling down to the shore, where ships and barges moved with majestic pride.
She looked about her in wonder, at home and yet not. Where was this place? And why did she feel such a connection that—
A door opened and Thomas appeared. He was dressed as if for court, in a deep-purple doublet shot through with silver threads, a neat but expensive pickadil about his neck. Hose decorated with dark panes stretched over his powerful thighs, complemented by a pair of rich canions. He appeared powerful and relaxed, that engaging smile of his upon his lips.
She loved that smile and returned it, walking toward him, holding out her hands as if sure of a welcome.
He grasped her hands immediately, chuckling deeply as he pulled her close. “Lady wife, you look surprised. Did I not tell you I’d be but a half hour?”
“If I look surprised, ’tis because you’re early.”
He pressed first one and then the other of her hands to his warm lips, his gaze never leaving hers. “I could not keep away.”
A shiver traced through her at the deep timbre of his voice. “Thomas, I . . . we’re happy, aren’t we?”
His smile widened. “Aye, we’re happy. Happy and content and well, and everything we deserve.” His expression darkened with concern. “But why do you question that? Do you not remember what I told you when we had our second ceremony?”
“Our second ceremony?”
“Aye, to replace the one your cousin forced upon us. I told you then, and I’ll tell you the same now. No matter what was, or what is, or what will be, I am your—”
The ship pitched fiercely and Fia rolled hard against the netting, the amulet tumbling into the tangled bedding. She searched hazily about her, her fingers closing over the amulet once more, and she tucked it back into the bag and slipped it into her pocket.
Though wild, the seas were calmer than they had been, the howling wind coming only in brief fits now. Fia found herself wide awake, oddly refreshed by her short nap and ready for a new adventure. How she wished she could have been on deck to see the ocean come alive like an infuriated dragon, thrashing and writhing enough to sink an entire ship. The thought thrilled her.
Staying so still irked her, and she decided to rise since the ship’s pitching had softened. She undid the netting and stumbled to the writing table, where she found her small lap desk tucked into the locked drawer. Bless Mary for being so organized. Fia clasped the desk to her and staggered back to the bunk. Perhaps she could begin a play with a shipwreck. That would be exciting indeed!
Fia absently rubbed the amulet as she looked about the cabin for further inspiration. This would do for a pirate’s cabin. The handsome furnishings would serve well with just a few embellishments.
She looked at the desk. Would a pirate have a desk? Aye, Thomas the Pirate would. No doubt he would keep detailed records of his exploits. She would put a big lock on it to keep all of his maps, charts, and treasure inventories safe from prying eyes.
And perhaps, she thought, nibb
ling on the end of her quill, she should put a secret drawer in it. For the next several moments, the retreating howl of the wind and the scratch of her quill were the only noises in the room.
Sighing with satisfaction, she finished her description of the desk and looked about the room again, her eyes falling on the intricately carved chest at the foot of the bunk. She scooted over to regard it. It was so small, she had scarce noticed it before.
There was no need to embellish the description of the trunk. Made of sinister, dark carved wood, it looked for all the world like a pirate’s possession. What would be inside a pirate’s trunk? Gold? Jewels? Swords? Coins? Or something more sinister . . .
She shivered. She had to know what was in the trunk. She could relock it once she’d looked. And it wasn’t as if Thomas had told her not to look. Indeed, he’d never mentioned the trunk at all.
Within moments, she was on her knees, the end of her knife in the lock. It took but a few twists before the lock gave and the chest opened with a satisfyingly gruesome creak.
Taking a deep breath, Fia peered inside and saw . . . folds and folds of pale blue silk. It shimmered like water as it rippled through her hands. ’Twas of such a light, pale color, ’twas obviously meant for someone of a fair complexion.
That is odd, she thought. As she pulled the silk from the trunk, a small leather pouch fell into her lap. For a moment, she could only stare at it. “Gold?” she whispered to herself. “Or jewels?” Her heart pounded as she lifted the bag. ’Twas too light to be either.
She untied the lavender ribbon that cinched the pouch, opened the bag, and poured the contents into her lap. Light yellow, deep purple and amethyst, bloodred, pale blue, azure, and every shade of green imaginable lay twined across her lap. “Embroidery thread,” she said in a hollow voice. “He keeps blue silk and embroidery thread locked in a trunk.”
Her heart began to sink. These were not pirate treasures but gifts. “The kind a man might bring to a woman he loves,” she whispered aloud.
At sea it had been easy to pretend that only the people on board the Glorianna existed, but the truth was there were many other people waiting for the ship to dock so that they could make their presence known. Was a beauteous lady waiting on Thomas? Were the gifts in the trunk for her?