In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (14 page)

He stopped a few feet from the chair. This time after dinner and before bed was always an awkward one. For the last week, Lucy had used these hours to argue with him.

“I could stay here in Scotland,” she said.

“I thought you didn’t like Scotland,” he said, taking a few steps closer.

She was a lush little thing, with surprising curves underneath all her clothes. He liked cuddling with her and loving her. He only wished she liked it as much.

He took another step, only to be met with a frown.

“Leave me alone, Gavin,” she said, turning and looking out the window. “Do what you men do when you’re not playing at war or being ravening beasts.”

He took a step back, staring down at his wife. He should go down to Cameron’s library, find a book on ship design and avail himself of some of his host’s excellent whiskey. After a few hours had passed he’d return to their suite to see if his wife was any more receptive to his touch.

If he took her to the
Raven,
maybe she’d understand. Once she saw the vessel and he explained how, exactly, he was going to outrun the Union ships, she’d understand that running the blockade wasn’t for glory but for survival. The fate of women like his mother and sisters might depend on the supplies he got through to the South.

Lucy needed to comprehend the rightness of his cause. If she did, she wouldn’t be so hesitant about sailing to Nassau. She might even be more welcoming to him. She’d send him off to war the way women had done since the beginning of time, with a kiss and memories to keep him warm.

Until then he’d leave her alone, intent on her view from the window.

S
HE
’
D DONE
it again, managed to confound him with a kiss. No, more than a kiss. By her words, by the soft, resigned tone in which she’d spoken of Washington.

He stood where he was for several minutes, then followed Glynis’s path through the darkness.

Glasgow had changed in the last seven years. He wanted to make sure she was safe walking home. He stood on the hill watching, seeing the flash of her cuffs occasionally. When the door opened, he let out the breath he was holding.

Yet he didn’t move.

A dozen minutes later the light went on in the room he knew was hers.

He still didn’t move.

She’d kissed him again. Unlike seven years ago, he didn’t have any trouble thinking of Glynis as a woman. He might have forgotten his honor, but he could still feel her in his arms.

She’d felt right being there.

Glynis was in his bones, like Scotland. She was a part of him. A laughing companion, a patient listener, a girl who’d become a woman without him noticing. Then, she blindsided him by leaving Glasgow before he had a chance to act on that knowledge.

He’d been damn lonely the past seven years, something he hadn’t told anyone. The only person who might have guessed was Eleanor, who insisted on reading Glynis’s letters to him. She was a compassionate woman, one who’d taken the place of his own mother. He might have confided in her if the situation had been different, if she hadn’t been missing Glynis herself.

The light was abruptly extinguished. Was she standing there in the darkness watching him? Did she wonder why he hadn’t moved, why his gaze was still fixed on her window?

He wanted an explanation, an answer to his confusion.

Why had she been so curious about Rose?

Rose was a lovely girl with a lilting laugh and a sweetness in her demeanor. Yet he’d realized he couldn’t marry her a month before the wedding.

She listened to him talk about his ships, but she never once challenged his thoughts or asked about his designs. He’d kissed her twice but he never felt the top of his head lift off like he had a few minutes ago.

Rose wasn’t Glynis.

She didn’t dare him. She didn’t intrigue him. Not once had she done anything to startle him. She’d never caused him any sleepless nights. Nor had she brought any tumult or confusion to his life.

He didn’t love Rose.

It struck him with the force of a blow.

He’d been waiting for Glynis.

All this time, he’d been waiting for her.

“T
hat’s it, sir. The ship’s empty, ready for your walk.”

Lennox nodded and thanked his foreman.

This last inspection of the
Raven
was a solitary one. The day before, he’d taken the foremen of the crews with him, the boilermakers, carpenters, ship fitters, and joiners, listening to their comments and concerns.

This was his time alone, a farewell to the vessel born in his consciousness, brought to life on paper, and created in wood and iron. For now, this space of an hour or so, he, the designer, the builder, and in a way that always amused him—the mother—would say good-bye to his creation.

He breathed deeply, inhaling the sharp scent of newly sawn wood, varnish, turpentine, and paint, all odors reminding him of his daily work, of Cameron and Company, and the magic of creating ships to cross the oceans of the world.

If he hadn’t built ships for a living, he would’ve sailed them. But it was enough for him to envision the voyages of Cameron ships and, recently, to imagine the newest iron-clad ships as spirits on the ocean, blockade runners too fast to be captured.

He’d never see or sail the
Raven
again. Nor would he stand on her bow and greet the dawn. He’d never have
the thrill of riding out a storm, knowing she was solidly built and more than a match for Mother Nature.

He’d spent hours poring over the plans, making changes, engineering details for this ship, as he’d done for no other. The cladding had proved difficult only because of the shape of her hull. The
Raven
was designed to fly over the waves, and when she’d finally taken shape, he realized he’d achieved his dream.

His emotions were tied up in this ship, foolishly so. He wanted the
Raven
to succeed for a variety of reasons. He wanted the world to know how fast and well built a Cameron and Company ship was. He wanted her to succeed in bringing cotton back to Glasgow so half the city wouldn’t be hurting because of the Americans’ war, and he wanted, too, for his father to be proud.

His father had an affinity for ships, the same love Lennox had always felt. Although William Cameron couldn’t see the
Raven,
he’d felt her. He’d stroked his weathered and callused hands across the planed and sanded wood. He’d felt the archboard where the
Raven
’s name had been painted. Then, in a moment as breathless as the seconds before a gale, he smiled, turned in Lennox’s direction and said simply, “You’ve done us proud.”

Now all he had to do was turn over his ship to Gavin.

The man was like most of the blockade-running captains he’d met, filled with confidence and an almost idiotic bravado. Whittaker had already lost one ship, ground it rather than surrender to a Union vessel sliding out of the fog.

The man’s rendition of the tale was meant for female ears or those without any experience aboard ship. Lennox interpreted what Whittaker didn’t say, knew the man had been nearly suicidal, deliberating
steering his ship onto the sandbar rather than allow the Union forces to capture her and use her against the Confederate navy.

He hoped Whittaker would treat the
Raven
better.

Lennox stood at the stern, watching the dismantling of the bridge connecting the two docks on either side of the ship. They’d constructed a new berth for the
Raven
because of her size. Now smaller ships—average ships—would take her place.

His joy in this accomplishment was tempered by the realization that he had no one to share it with. Duncan was a close friend, yet the occasion would be tantamount to boasting if he called for Duncan to join him, especially in light of the mill’s troubles.

What would Glynis think? He could imagine her grabbing her skirts and racing up to the forecastle, or staring at the massive midship paddle wheel in wonder.

Would her face have turned to his, her eyes sparkling? “It’s the most wonderful ship you’ve ever built,” she might have exclaimed.

He wanted to show it to her. He wanted to prove he was so much more than he’d once been, that his experience had grown and his talent had developed.

He wanted her to be proud of him.

Smiling at himself, he finished his inspection. Already the
Raven
was part of his past.

Did Glynis realize she was part of his future?

C
HAOS MARKED
their morning, the normal pattern of their quiet days disrupted by weeping coming from the parlor, along with her mother’s gentle voice.

Eleanor never allowed a person’s status or job to interfere with her interest. If something changed in the cook’s life or for one of the maids, her mother knew of it first. Glynis overheard enough tearful confessions
and explanations to know people saw her mother as a gentle soul, someone who would understand more than condemn.

Once the tearful scene with the maid was over, she entered the parlor and hugged her mother. Eleanor looked surprised, then pleased, glancing up at her with wise blue eyes.

“She’s finding herself in the family way, poor dear. And there’s no one to help her out. Her young man has gone off to sea.”

“And we’ll have a pregnant maid until she gives birth,” Glynis said. “And after that, will you set up a nursery in the attic?”

Her mother smiled. “I might consider it. Thank heavens I never had such a problem with you.”

Not for lack of wanting. What would her mother say to the truth?

Her smile fixed, she glanced toward the window. The day promised to be a sunny and bright one, the hills of Glasgow visible with no fog or mist. If she looked left, she could see Hillshead standing like an eagle in its aerie.

Cook peered around the door. A strange sight to see Mabel’s round and normally beaming face wrinkled in worry.

“It’s all right, Mabel. We’ll handle things as they come.”

Cook nodded. “Right you are, missus. It’s God’s gift you are, Mrs. MacIain.”

Eleanor smiled. “The girl just needs a kind word and a helping hand.”

How had she done without her mother all these years?

Since returning from America, she discovered that she and her mother had a great deal in common. They had similar taste in books, sweets, and a matching
sense of humor. Her mother loved tea, and half-empty cups could be found scattered around the house, as if she’d been distracted in the act of drinking them. Glynis had done it often enough herself that whenever she found a cup, she smiled and returned it to the kitchen.

“I truly missed you,” she said now, smiling at her mother as she sat beside her.

“And I truly missed you,” her mother said. “To have you home is one of the great joys of my life.”

She should have found the money somehow, disobeyed Richard, and come home for a visit. She hadn’t, though, and she’d always regret not seeing her father before he died.

“You look tired, Glynis. Did you not sleep well?”

She shook her head. “No, not really,” she said.

Eleanor reached out and patted her hand. “We will manage somehow, my dear. We MacIains are a strong bunch.”

She glanced at her mother and forced a smile to her face. She wasn’t thinking of the mill. She hadn’t been able to sleep well last night because of what she’d done.

She remembered her abandon with twin emotions of shock and despair. She certainly hadn’t acted like a proper widow, had she? She felt like she was repeating the past, becoming the nineteen-year-old girl who’d fled Glasgow for London. Except in the intervening years she’d learned she couldn’t escape from herself.

She had custody of her thoughts and guardianship over her mouth. She was no longer the hoyden, the girl-child with the adventurous spirit, the female who said what she thought, however inappropriate and ill-timed.

She’d entertained personages at her Washington home. She’d been renowned for her dinners. She’d discussed events of the day, ideas of the times. Not once
did she ever utter a shocking or scandalous word. Nor did she humiliate herself.

What had happened to her?

After all, she was a sophisticated woman of the world. She had decorum and possessed a certain poise. Rarely was she incensed or pushed beyond the boundaries of proper behavior. She held what she felt inside. Otherwise people might use her thoughts and emotions as weapons against her.

Why, then, had she forgotten all those cautions around Lennox?

She’d been coached by Richard for years. Everything she did had to be perfect. If it wasn’t, he made her rehearse it endlessly until he was certain she’d learned her lesson.

“You weren’t attentive when the French ambassador was telling his story,” he said on the night he died.

“Which story was this?” she’d asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Your eyes must never roam. You must never look bored, Glynis. It doesn’t reflect well on me. You must be perfect.”