Devil's Own (Clan MacAlpin #2)

Devil's Own (Clan MacAlpin #2) Page 29

“Coming,” she said, even as she nestled deeper in the sheets. Dawn had finally come, sliding gray fingers through the shutters. Rolling onto her back, she came to terms with the reality of her day.

Though it was set in a corner in the main room, she heard the creak of her father’s cot. Heard him shuffling along the stone floor, followed by the pop and crackle of a nascent fire. “Fool girl,” he was grumbling to himself, “lays abed, and there’s work to be done.”

Elspeth sighed, baring linen-clad shoulders and then arms to the chill air. Like every other morning, she swung her legs out of bed, bracing for the shock of cold stone underneath sleep-warmed feet.

“Time to wake up and feed the sheep,” he called.

“Aye, I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called back. But, unlike every other morning, this time she’d awakened with a smile on her face. Because she’d finally realized how she could help Aidan. And today was the day she’d take action.

They’d kissed, which meant the responsibility she’d felt for his well-being was justified. He was a roguish sort, and danger followed such men. She sensed trouble, and knew she needed to see just what sort of people he was involved with. She’d stolen just a single sheet from his papers, but it bore the name of a man in Aberdeen, and a name was a start.

Dougal Fraser.

She had to do all she could to ensure Aidan’s safety, because she was fairly certain she loved him. Unfortunately, she was also fairly certain he’d likely never love her back the same way. But he was her romantic hero, and she’d give anything to be his heroine, even if it was just this once.

And what did the heroines do in all the great stories?

They intervened in the affairs of their men.

Dougal Fraser was nervous, but not such a fool as to show it. Few men clawed their way free of the Aberdeen gutters, but Dougal had, and he knew that more than hard work, he owed his success to a talent for bluffing. His hair had gone gray, and his knees had begun to ache, but still it was upon this skill alone that he most relied.

He leaned back in his chair, affecting calm confidence. “Tell me … Francis … your captain guarantees I’ll receive my payment in raw cotton?”

The beefy man who sat across from him flinched. Urchins on the street knew the fellow only as “the yeoman,” and use of his Christian name had the unsettling effect Dougal sought. “Aye,” he said, shifting uncomfortably, “them’s the terms of our agreement, like.”

“Fine, let’s talk of our terms. I’ve staked the ship, I’ve filled your bellies.” Dougal pointed with distaste at the man’s overlarge girth. “But now I want guarantees.”

The yeoman bristled. “Every docksman in Aberdeen kens Captain Will is as good as his word. If the man says a thing, it’s because he means it.”

“Captain this, Captain that.” Something about this infamous captain rankled him. The man’s past was shrouded in mystery, and Dougal wondered what he might be hiding. “It’s not what your captain says or does in Aberdeen that concerns me. It’s what happens once he sets sail, with my goods.” Referring to their cargo as “goods” felt so much more civilized than calling them bodies, or slaves, or servants, or hides, or whatever distasteful nomenclature people bandied about.

The yeoman worried the cap in his hands, thinking hard, looking as though steam might come out his ears from the effort. “If you’ll be begging my pardon, it takes a lot to keep ’em souls alive. I don’t ken why you just don’t trade with money like other folk do.”

“These far-flung plantations need labor, which sur-rounds me in abundance.” Dougal’s lingering glare said he included the yeoman in the distasteful category. “And here I am, in need of cotton. Which—in addition to savages and the putrid fever—it appears these godforsaken tropical locales are choking upon. Meanwhile, the Crown wants taxes, taxes, taxes when goods are bought and sold, yet you might imagine I am loath to pay a farthing of my hard-earned income.” Resting his elbows on his desk, Dougal steepled his fingers, smiling triumphantly. He was as impressed with his scheme as he’d been on the day he hatched it.

But the man only stared dumbly, not getting the connection.

Dougal spelled it out in an insultingly slow pace. “I fund and fill a ship with able-bodied men. Your captain sails it away. But then he sails it back. Filled with cotton. Voilà! I’ve made a trade, but the Crown is none the wiser.”

The man continued to gape, and Dougal was forced to ask after a moment, “Do you see what I’m about here?” He gestured impatiently behind him. “Knit goods. Cotton from the tropics expands my offerings. Cotton I get by trading for men, not money. No money means no taxes.”

“Seems a terrible lot of confusion to my mind.”

Not confusing, brilliant. And he was convinced the scheme was only slightly illegal. The slave trade was loosely sanctioned by Parliament, after all. And with this elusive captain as his go-between, Dougal remained unexposed, and his reputation unsullied.

“Then it’s a good thing it’s not up to you to wrap your mind around it.” Dougal sat upright and began to shuffle papers on his desk. He had no patience for dimwits and was eager for this particular interview to reach an end. “Now stop flapping your jaw and tell me what you’ve come to tell me. Have you finished gathering our cargo?”

“Aye, the ship’s full, but captain’s coffers isn’t. He wants that—”

They were interrupted by a faint knocking on his door.

The yeoman stiffened, instantly on alert, vicious intent lighting his face.

Dougal rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself. This is my place of business, not a Cornish wrestling hall.”

He stood and went to the door, meaning to crack it open himself. It’d be well if whoever had come calling didn’t see him with one such as “Francis the yeoman.”

But instead the door opened on Dougal, nearly striking him in the face. He rubbed his nose at the near miss, but his outrage faded when he laid eyes on his visitor.

It was a girl. Though she wasn’t precisely pretty, neither was she rough on the eyes. She was a pale creature, with a delicate nose, lips that were curved but not full, and a chest that was sadly meager.

“Dougal Fraser?” she asked.

Her voice was meek, and it made her seem all the more fragile. All in all, he doubted she’d be able to stand up in a strong gust of wind, for all that she’d nearly swung the door in his face.

But who in holy hell was she?

“At your service,” he said, knowing the charming words didn’t match the tightness of his tone.

He stepped in front of the doorway to block her view, but it was too late. She’d seen the yeoman and her eyes widened. Though she recovered quickly, he spied the mental machinations that’d begun in that eerily pale gaze.

Whoever the chit was, she was canny.

His only choice was to control the damage. Dougal gave the man a pointed look. “Take your leave now.”

The yeoman’s ruddy cheek twitched. Looking illpleased, he rose and sidled past them out the door. “Verra well then.”

The dock riffraff momentarily dispensed with, Dougal took the girl’s elbow and, feigning graciousness, led her to a seat. “Whom do I have the pleasure of entertaining here in my humble office?”

“Woolen goods …” she mused, craning her head to read the sign on his door. “Woolen goods. Woolen goods!”

Those strange eyes met his. They’d gone bright, and he saw up close the unusual yellow flecks that streaked from her pupils like sunbursts.

Daft or deft, that was the question. The girl was a conundrum, and conundrums put Dougal on his guard. Her quavering voice bespoke a ninny-headed lass. But she’d clearly been braw enough to venture into the heart of Aberdeen alone. Was hers the trembling confusion of an innocent, or an act?

“Yes, my business is woolen goods.” He sat at his desk, across from her. “But what is your business, Miss … ?”

Something in her eyes snapped to attention. “Farquharson. Elspeth Farquharson.”

Her name nagged him. “Farquharson … Ah,” he said, recognition dawning. “Just so. A Farquharson contacted me not too long ago. Said he was in the sheep business. A bit old, but … your father perhaps?”

“Yes, that’s so.” She sat tall, looking guarded.

He remembered all of it now. The man had been a bit doddering, striking Dougal as an addle-brained but unthreatening sort of fellow. Feeling the daughter’s unsettling gaze on him now, he wondered if he hadn’t underestimated the situation. If the man’s purpose was to do business, why had he sent this girl in his stead? “I recall, he said he’d just one child. A daughter. So you’re she.”

“Yes,” Elspeth replied, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I am she.”

Was she surprised she’d been recognized? Had her father sent her to spy?

Dougal’s mind raced. “Your father is new to the sheep business, as I recall. He brought some papers here, outlining his vast enterprise.”

The lass looked shocked to hear it. He smirked, thinking he’d been right—the man Farquharson was simply a doddering old grump.

But his smile faded when another detail popped into memory. “I recall seeing the initials EF on those papers. Yet your father’s name is Albert.”

Perhaps he was being overly suspicious, but his new slaves-for-cotton venture was just taking off. He was on the brink of making a great fortune, and it was not the time for young misses to be nosing around.

She lifted her chin. “You read correctly.”

Dougal registered her every movement, realizing he’d misjudged. A shy and plain-faced creature she may be, but the chit wasn’t meek. “I suppose EF stands for ‘Elspeth Farquharson’?”

She gave a tight nod.

So she was in charge of the accounts, not the father. “Good on you, girl. You’re brighter than I took you for. I’ll wager many folk underestimate your like.” He narrowed his eyes. The only thing worse than a scheming woman was a scheming, impoverished woman. “Why are you here? And don’t insist you were in the neighborhood.”