First Time with a Highlander Page 8

  The curate’s eyes were narrowing.

  “Aye, of course I’m Edward,” Gerard said.

  “Good,” the man said, relieved. “I can hardly falsify a marriage between people who havena agreed to it.”

  “I can see where that would cross a moral line.”

  “Then what did you say nae to?”

  Gerard shifted. “Er, it’s just that…you spelled her name wrong. There’s an a at the end.”

  “At the end of what?” The curate took back the copy. “Fallon?”

  “No, no, no. Her middle name.”

  “Oh, so it’s not—?” The curate made a noise like he was clearing a wad of phlegm from his throat, and Gerard realized with a start that he was saying the name.

  Gerard shook his head. “No.”

  “Verra interesting. How do you pronounce it then?”

  Gerard looked at the mishmash of letters in Seonag. Ever since he’d tried to bed a Shiobhàn, he’d known that in Gaelic, the letters on the page had very little to do with the way to say a name. She’d made him take a shot of tequila each time he’d mispronounced it. He’d ended that night stretched out in the backseat of a cab, singing “Single Ladies” to a terrified Eritrean driver on his second day on the job, who decided by the end of his time with Gerard to return to his homeland and join his brother’s dry-cleaning business.

  Gerard shrugged. “Like you said it, really, only with a bit of an ‘uh’ at the end.”

  The man frowned at the paper, unconvinced.

  “Think of the a as silent.”

  “I can fix it, I suppose,” the man said, reaching for the paper, “but ’twill be another two pence though.”

  “Never mind. It’s fine. No one will notice.”

  The man handed him the copy. “Well, if that was all you were seeking last night, I might have finished it then and there, but you began your bawling—‘If ye want to bed me, ye must marry me proper!’—and the lady dragged you out, yelling she would come back later to fetch the thing.”

  “And did she? How will I find out?”

  “Of course, she didn’t. That’s why I still have it.”

  “No,” Gerard said, impatient, “I mean did she marry me proper?”

  “Oh.” The man looked disappointed. “I could ask my colleagues, I suppose. Come to think of it, Colm mentioned that Archie said a couple who came in before dawn to be married were like none he’d ever seen—drunk as baronets and barely able to stand. He sent a boy to follow them when they left.”

  “For safety reasons?”

  “More financial ones. The drunk ones and smitten ones are the easiest to separate from their purses. And these two, Archie said, were both.”

  “You rob your patrons?” Gerard supposed he should be glad for his lack of pockets.

  “‘Rob’ is a harsh word, sir. I like to think of it as freeing them from their worldly goods at a time when they should be focused on the spiritual. You know this church doesn’t run on goodwill. The curates can’t eat gratitude. We also let the spire tower if you ever have a need.”

  Gerard slapped his forehead, realizing the omission in his search. “You can get to the spire?”

  “Oh, aye. ’Tis a lovely little space up there—so long as you get out before the bells peal. Verra private, with a view for ten miles in every direction—not that many are there for the view. And Colm and I have outfitted it to a discerning gentleman’s standards. There’s a crossbar on the door, a blanket, a candlestick, and a nice, thick stack of rugs.”

  “Prayer mats, I suppose?”

  “Devotionals come in many forms, sir.”

  “Do you rent it by the hour?”

  “And by the quarter and half too,” said the man, pleased with himself. “Some needs are met more quickly than others.”

  “I’d like to take a look.”

  “Many have said that, sir. Sadly,” the cleric added, the word heavy with meaning, “the door is locked.”

  “I see.” Gerard considered his options. He could pay to have the door opened, but he was beginning to enjoy this one-on-one selling. “Last night notwithstanding, I am a man who would find the use of such a tower a very pleasing luxury. The men with whom I do business would also appreciate having a place to shed their worldly cares for an hour or two. Have you ever heard of word of mouth?”

  The cleric shook his head, rapt.

  “Aye, well, ’tis a very powerful motivator,” Gerard said. “If I have a good experience—that is to say, a very good experience—I am likely to tell my friends about it. ’Tis the fastest and most inexpensive way for a brand—a business like yours, I mean—to grow. The men I’ll be seeing at Lord Hiscock’s party on Monday have money in their pockets and time on their hands. What could please them more than a spiritual sojourn in their own private tower?”

  “At one with their salvation?”

  “The very picture I had in my head! I would certainly spread the good word if I was given a chance to sample the wares.”

  The cleric was practically drooling. “Oh, aye. The door is at the end of a long hall at the top of the stairs. The key hangs behind the cracked headstone of one Donal Urqhardt. Shall I send a note for your lady?” His voice lowered. “Or would you prefer to sample one of MacGregor’s girls across the street? I heartily recommend Peg—not that she or anyone could compare to Mrs. Turnbull, of course.”

  Gerard accepted this very questionable compliment with a bow. “Thank you—er, what is your name?”

  “Kincaid, sir. Father Kincaid.”

  “Thank you for your verra generous offer, Father Kincaid, but today I am feeling quite self-sufficient. I believe I’ll be able to satisfy my present desires on my own.”

  The man had the sangfroid to make it in the business world. He didn’t even blink an eye.

  “As you wish, sir. The next bell ringing ain’t till vespers.”

  Gerard folded the register copy and slipped it carefully in his shirt pocket. He had a reasonable guess at what Serafina was playing at here, but he intended to be sure. “And I would be appreciative—most appreciative—if you could find out from Archie if the couple last night happened to be Mrs. Turnbull and I, and if we actually married.”

  “’Twould be my pleasure.”

  Twelve

  Serafina inhaled deeply and lowered the spyglass. Here, above the bustle of the dirty streets, with the salt-soaked air in her lungs and the freshening midday breeze twirling her skirts and blowing tendrils of hair across her cheeks, she could think clearly. She had come here often as a child, when her da conducted his business with the merchants in the streets below. They had not been often in town, but when they were, this was the church they’d attended. She gazed at the people below her, as small as ants, scurrying to attend to their errands. But it wasn’t the teeming humanity of the city below that captured her attention, nor mile upon mile of gentle green hills to the west and south. It was the vast blue expanse of the Firth of Forth and the tiny moving dots of white beyond the Leith shore that held her riveted. She would know the ship instantly—a fat little barque with a red stripe.

  That much she did remember. The ship Duncan had told her was arriving had not reached port last night, contrary to his report, and her questions to the dockmaster regarding the new arrival time had eventually led to the wild chase through Leith.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to confront Edward about the cargo, she thought. She’d gone to him weeks ago because she’d wanted him to admit he’d stolen the money, and his denial pushed her to the boiling point. She’d told him she intended to steal the cargo away from him, that it belonged to her.

  Had he hired the cutpurses and instructed them lay in wait, knowing she’d come? Edward was not one for unnecessary expenses. And in any case, he’d laughed when she’d made her threat. Spurred on by his derision, she’d formulated her plan, made her
way to Kerr Castle to find Undine, and accompanied Undine and her friends back to Edinburgh.

  The door at the bottom of the stairs made a noise, and her heart stilled.

  Gerard ascended slowly, holding the key up as if to show he came unarmed. A bottle sat snugly beneath his arm. She met him at the top of the stairs.

  “I wondered if you’d find me here.” And she had wondered. She’d found herself unable to think about almost anything else since she’d climbed the narrow stairs.

  “Did you wonder if I’d look or if I’d find? The men appear to have gone, or in any case, they didn’t follow me here.”

  “I told you I’d be safe.”

  He shrugged and placed the key in her hand, which sent a shiver to her toes.

  He said, “I was told if the crossbar had been thrown, I was to return again in a quarter hour and knock. I was told quite a number of interesting things about this place, actually.”

  She knew the rumors well enough, and her cheeks warmed. “Oh, aye. I suppose there are people whose enjoyment would require the insurance of a crossbar. I, however, came for the view, and, as such, am happy to share the space with others.”

  “Well, I locked the door when I came in. There’s no point in inviting unhappiness, right? I must say, it was certainly a challenge to find you—” He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the view. “My God.”

  “Do you like it?” Foolishly, she felt the view to be a gift she was giving him, and she wanted very much for him to be enamored with it.

  “I live in a city,” he said, clearly struck, “in a very tall building. Higher than this even. And I have a beautiful view—of fifty other buildings equally as high—”

  “No! It’s not possible.” The thought made her dizzy.

  “Oh, it is. The building I was in when you summoned me is as high as this and has a pool in it.”

  “’Tis something out of a story.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose it is. But the people in my time don’t even think about how lucky we are. The woman I was with said—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Not important. But this…” He gestured to the castle and the verdant hills beyond. “This is… I mean, it’s just…”

  “Aye,” she said, beaming. “I know.”

  He looked at the soaring structure over their heads, a steeple atop a dome of iron ribs twenty feet high, beyond which a vista of several hundred square miles was visible.

  “This is…amazing,” he said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “This is your church, then? Where your family attended services, I mean?”

  “When we were on land, aye. My father captained ships before he was a merchant. Most of the time, we sat for services on the deck of the ship, with the terns and kittiwakes looking on.”

  He turned a quarter turn to the west and grinned. “The castle.”

  “Oh, aye. Never been breeched.”

  He turned a quarter turn again, and she waited, hoping, hoping…

  A small, thrilled sound rose in his throat. “Wow.”

  “’Tis the Firth of Forth,” she said, the flush of pleasure running deep. “It empties into the North Sea—sometimes called the German Sea, though not by Scots, of course. We believe the sea to be ours. The Celts called it Morimaru—the dead sea.”

  “Because of dangerous navigation?”

  “Och, no. ’Tis not dangerous, not when you’ve done it enough. ’Tis a beautiful stretch of sailing water, though she demands attention and respect.”

  “As any good woman does.”

  “Any good Scotswoman,” she said, laughing. “But she can hide her currents under patches of water that are still—what a sailor calls ‘dead.’”

  “The parallel to a good woman continues.”

  Serafina grinned. “She brought us the Saxons and the Vikings, who gave us our warriors and the will to fight. Then she brought us textiles from France and grain from Germany and timber from Scandinavia, so that towns like Edinburgh and Glasgow could rise like oases in the beautiful hills. And now Scots fill their bellies and their pockets with the riches from her waters. Is she not the most giving of mothers, the most glorious of gods?”

  “You should write copy.”

  “For your advertisements?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would anyone care for a woman’s thoughts?”

  “Good copy has no gender.”

  He took a step backward, and she caught his arm. “Careful.” She pointed to the hole in the floor. “’Tis a long way down.”

  He peered into the nave. “I knew falling was going to be a risk around you, but I wasn’t thinking this.”

  His eyes were like two tiny capstans, pulling her closer, turn by turn. She made a skeptical noise and looked away.

  “What’s over there?” He pointed to the east. “I mean, if one sailed as far as one could go?”

  “It depends. By latitude, Denmark. By proximity, Sweden. But by current alone, you would reach Bruges long before you reached anything else.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, aye. A good sailor could have you in Bruges in four days—three with the wind at your back. Have you sailed?”

  He smiled. “In my time, ships sail above the ground on the wind—miles above the ground. They can sail from New York to Bruges in eight hours.”

  “No!” She thought of her father’s ship, the Starling, beating through invisible currents high over their heads. It was too fantastical. “Can you sail over a city? Have you seen Bruges’s belfry from above?”

  He shook his head, sheepish. “I’ve been to Bruges twice. I’m ashamed to say I’ve never even seen the belfry from the ground.”

  “Oh, Gerard.”

  He laughed. “You sound so sad for me. No one feels sad for me. You also called me by my first name. I like that.”

  She handed him the glass and he put it to his eye. As he swept the sparkling ocean, she observed the strength of his profile. He did resemble Edward from a top-of-the-mast point of view, but in more specific ways—the strong set of his jaw, the lightness always at the corner of his mouth, the dimple, of course—he was so different. And the way he carried himself, like a man used to having his way, not by dint of his family’s position but by force of natural intelligence and charm—that was different too.

  “Do you see the ship there? At the very edge of the horizon?” She took his sleeve and pointed him in the direction she wanted him to look.

  “That’s not a ship. It’s a speck of white—a wave, maybe, or a flash of sunlight.”

  She laughed. “’Tis a ship. With a square sail. Which means it’s probably a barque.”

  He pulled the glass away and shook his head. “Honestly, it’s a dot, and a round dot at that. How can you see anything in it?”

  “Ah, when you’ve looked at enough dots on the horizon, you begin to recognize the difference. We cannot see the whole ship because the earth curves—they still know that in your time, aye?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “And the curve hides the rest of the ship from view—and it will for the next few minutes.”

  “It’s like a sunrise.”

  “Exactly. And soon it will be hull up—er, the front will be visible but nae the back. And a few minutes after that, we will be able to tell the ship’s color and its colors.”

  He gave her an inquiring look.

  “Its color is the color the sides have been painted. Its colors,” she said, emphasizing the s, “are its flag, or at least the flag it’s sailing under. A ship may carry a Saltire—Scotland’s flag—or a Jack—England’s—or even the French white ensign. Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s a Scottish ship or an English ship or a French ship. Ship’s captains can be verra unscrupulous. Sometimes it’s safer or wiser to sail under another country’s colors.”

  “You seem to know a l
ot.”

  “I’ve been watching that one for the last few minutes. I thought I saw a speck of green at the mast top, replaced quickly by a speck of blue. I have an idea the captain is weighing his options.”

  “I must admit,” he said, returning the glass to his eye, “I prefer sea gazing up here to trying to keep ahead of the bad guys. That was one hot mess down there.”

  She tapped her chin. “With ‘bad guys’ I can deduce the meaning. But ‘hot mess’?”

  “Just exactly the way it sounds.”

  She laughed. “Plain and simple. We Scots like it that way.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m a Scot too.”

  “Och, you?” The idea intrigued her.

  “My grandmother was born in Aviemore.”

  “A Highlander no less! What was her clan?”

  “Macintosh,” he said absently, picking up a stag-shaped candleholder from a broken barrel and examining it. “Inghean Macintosh of Clan Macintosh.”

  He had pronounced the name knee-ayn, exactly as a Scot would, softly and in the back of his throat. For an instant, draped in his plaid, with the ramparts of the castle on the hill behind him, he had transformed into a real Scot. And without any of Undine’s magic in sight.

  “’Tis a good name,” she said.

  “It is.” He returned the candleholder to its place. “My grandfather called her Jean though. He didn’t care for ‘the whiff of old country’ in the name. Used to tease her about it.” The lightness left his face. “My male role models are not exactly heroes. My dad cheated on my mother. My grandfather treated my grandmother unkindly. They were both sort of pricks, actually. Oh, um, prick. Let’s see—”

  She held up her hand. “Oh, aye. Just like it sounds. We have plenty of those here—pricks and bad guys. And they all seem to be intent on finding me.”

  He laughed. “Why is that? I mean, apart from the fact I’d expect all men to want to find you?”

  His compliment warmed her cheeks. “You are a practiced wooer, aren’t you?”