In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (19 page)

That made four Americans to perish near Glasgow in the last year.

Had the dead man been an associate of Baumann’s? The question brought him full circle.

Why was Glynis involved in conversation with a Union spy?

According to her own words, she didn’t want to see the man again. Then why was Baumann at her home?

Perhaps the most important question was: what did he do about this feeling of betrayal?

Was she working with the man? Was Glynis a Union operative? If so, was he her assignment? Was she supposed to seduce him? Confuse him? Confound him until he was incapable of speech, let alone building ships? Was that what the kiss in the garden was all about?

Was it her intention to ensnare him? If so, she rated a perfect score. He’d been fascinated from the first, watching for the woman who held herself so still to revert to the girl he’d known. At times he thought he’d spied her, but the glimpses lasted only a few seconds.
Her eyes would sparkle at him with a dare and then she’d change back into being the proper Mrs. Smythe.

Damned if he knew what he was going to do about Glynis.

T
he rain had begun at midnight, with no sign it was going to let up anytime soon. Glynis wanted to pull the covers over her head and tell herself the weather was too awful to venture outside. But that would have been the action of a coward, and after yesterday she had to demonstrate a little more courage.

She had to explain to Lennox.

After dressing, she slipped from the house and made her way to the stables. Once there, she sought out one of the drivers.

“I would like to go to the yard, please, Thomas. To Cameron and Company.”

The man only raised one eyebrow, but he didn’t move to open the carriage door.

The stable smelled of wax and a hint of kerosene. Did he use both to keep the body of the vehicle shiny?

“It’s Sunday,” he said, softening the words with a small smile.

She nodded. The one day Lennox would be alone at the shipyard. She wasn’t going to be foolish enough to return to Hillshead. Nor did she wish to call on him when he was surrounded by other people.

She had a confession to make and she didn’t want any witnesses.

“I’ve known you since you were a little girl, Miss Glynis. And now you’re a woman, well-traveled and
all. But I care for my horses and the carriages your family lets me drive. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t have the same concern for you? The yard is not a safe place for you in the best of times. On a Sunday it’s doubly dangerous.”

She had Richard’s Derringer, now tucked into her reticule. Beneath her bonnet was a hat pin the size of a dagger. Nor should anyone discount her determination.

“Thomas, I can assure you, I’ll be safe.”

He shook his head.

“Then I shall walk,” she said. “It will only take me an hour or two.”

She didn’t anticipate walking the distance through the rain, but if she had to do it, she would.

“Aye,” he said. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you? A stubborn little thing, ever since you were a girl.”

That obstinacy had gotten her into trouble more than once. Perhaps this was another example, but she had to talk to Lennox. Her conscience gnawed at her. For good or ill, he had to know the truth.

Thomas sighed heavily. “It’s dull we were around here without you, Miss Glynis.” He grinned at her and she couldn’t help but smile in return.

At last count there were more than twenty shipyards near Glasgow. Although the yards were downriver, the foundries supplying the material were located in the city itself. Each day they spit out copper and brass fittings, boilers and engines, all components for the new iron-hulled ships. Consequently, the air hanging over Glasgow always smelled of smoke.

The farther downriver they traveled, the clearer the air.

The shipyards were unworldly in the silence of a rainy Sunday. On this dark afternoon the shop lights on the wharf were reflected on the wet cobblestones.
The air carried the scent of the rain and the Clyde, the smell of home and one she’d forgotten for so many years.

Thomas pulled up before the sprawling building housing the Cameron and Company offices.

“I’ll come with you, shall I?” he asked, opening the door for her.

That wouldn’t do at all, would it? She didn’t want a witness to this particular confession.

She opened her umbrella and smiled at him. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll be fine.”

He only shook his head at her and climbed back onto the seat.

She’d not come here often, but she knew the only entrance to the office was on the dock side.

A carriage was parked not far away, reassuring her that Lennox was there. With the rain dividing its time between a torrent and a mist, she made her way to the office.

Please, don’t let him hate me.

She had been without Lennox’s good opinion of her for seven years. Why did it seem to matter so much now? Was it because he was the only person who truly knew her?

He’d witnessed most of the embarrassing scenes of her childhood. He’d helped her up when she’d been knocked from her horse, laughed at her when she was drenched in mud, and looked away when she’d fallen from a tree and torn her dress.

Yet he’d never seen her in all of her finery in Washington, with her hair arranged by an expert at the task. He never witnessed her making an entrance into a Washington ballroom, conscious of men’s admiring glances. Not once had he heard all the fulsome compliments paid to her.

Or if he does hate me, let it be of short duration. Or, if
that cannot be arranged, then help me not to care. Let me consider his good opinion of me as worthless as Richard’s had been.

Every time Richard had approved of her, he was really congratulating himself for picking her as his wife. He’d created a poised puppet who could enter any room filled with important people and hold her own in a variety of conversations. She could converse with a lecherous German, a fawning Frenchman, and discuss history with a Greek.

If Lennox did hate her, she would have to bear it somehow.

The rain drummed on the street in a heavy rhythm, then light, like a child making too much noise and cautioned by his parent. A moment later the sound would increase again, then slow to a patter.

Despite her umbrella, droplets found a home in the back of her collar, ran down her face, and soaked her stockings. She sneezed once, shivered with a summer chill, and drew her elbows close to her body. The wet wind carried a cooler layer beneath it, a hint of winter not far away, a caution to enjoy these days of warmth before they disappeared.

The afternoon was now almost as dark as night. She wished the lamps along the quay would light or the docks wouldn’t be as deserted. The silence unnerved her, made her feel as if she were the only person there.

Thomas was right. This was a man’s world where women weren’t welcome.

She stood surveying the docks belonging to Cameron and Company. Spires of masts clouded the air, blocking the view of most of the Clyde.

Drawing in the pong of dead fish and the warm, thick, almost caramel scent of varnish, she climbed the steps to the office and knocked on the door. When
Lennox didn’t answer, she peered into the window. Nothing but blackness met her eyes. The day was dark. If anyone had been inside they would have lit the lamps.

He wasn’t there.

Relief and regret surged through her. She wouldn’t have to tell him about Washington just yet. But she would have to soon. Delaying meant she’d worry longer.

Should she wait?

The wind gusted hard, rain beading her face as she turned then stopped and stared in wonder.

That long, low, gray iron ship had to be the
Raven.
She blended into the dim light of the watery day so perfectly she might be part of the elements.

Glynis recalled the talk about the thirty-five-hundred mile blockade. A Confederate captain had two hopes to make it to a southern port. Slip undetected through the fog and the night. Or be faster than any Union ship.

The
Raven
looked as if she could do both.

The ship was a beauty, her lines making her appear restless, waiting for the challenge of the next wave despite being moored to the dock. She looked like she wanted to race the wind and feel the power of the seas beneath her hull.

After descending the steps, Glynis moved to the gangplank. She’d never been aboard a Cameron and Company ship before, unless she counted Lennox’s boyhood boat.

By going on board she would be flaunting a superstition. Women weren’t allowed on a ship unless they were married and accompanying their husbands.

“What about figureheads?” she’d once asked Lennox. “Why are they women?”

“That’s different,” he said, his cheeks bronzing.

She’d waited but he’d never explained. Only later, and she couldn’t remember from whom the information had come, she’d been told a figurehead’s bare bosom was supposed to quell the sea into obeying while its eyes looked out for danger.

A human woman, however, brought about storms and disaster.

Sailors were a superstitious bunch, another comment Lennox made. Everything she’d learned about ships and the sea had come from him. On her voyage to Cairo and to America, she’d made note of several things aboard ship she wanted to discuss with him, before she remembered Lennox was part of her past, not her present or future.

She crossed the gangplank and over the wet deck, taking care as her footing slipped several times. She expected to feel the gentle swell of the ocean lapping at her hull but the
Raven
was as sturdy as a brick building, a match for any wave.

Great ships were built on the Clyde. Some had been transported to America in crates to be unpacked and put together on the Mississippi. Clyde ships sailed the globe, bearing names synonymous with grace, speed, and workmanship.

She had a feeling the
Raven
was among the greatest of all these and yet she’d been built for war.

The heavens opened up, the growl of thunder timed to the slash of lightning.

This was not a tranquil storm but a fierce Scottish one, sent to bathe the earth and wash it clean. The wind whipped over the deck and whistled through the rigging. Rain slashed across her face as thunder rumbled, announcing its arrival like the Queen’s trumpeters.

She turned away from the wind, stopped and stared.

The hand holding the umbrella dropped to her side. Her pulse escalated as her mind screamed at her.

She calmly took a step back and remembered to breathe.

Fear climbed her spine with sharp claws as she stared at the sight at her feet. For a heart-stopping second she thought it was Lennox, but details rushed in to fill her with hope. This man’s hair was blond.

She forced herself to look at him.

He lay on the deck, eyes open and staring at the black clouds above. His legs were spread, his arms at his sides, one hand stretched out as if to reach for something.

Blood, diluted by the rain, pooled beneath his body and ran in rivulets over the deck.

Was he dead? He looked dead. But what if he wasn’t? If he was dying, she needed to get him help or do something.

In Washington there had been calls for matrons to volunteer as nurses. She had been grateful, God help her, for her status. Being married to a member of the British Legation prevented her from volunteering because of their neutrality. She needn’t see the wounded or witness the gore of war.

Now she had no excuse. She had to do something.

Time slowed, became a pudding of air, a gelatinous mixture not unlike Mabel’s tomato aspic. She hated the dish, an odd thought to have now as she stared at the man on the deck.

Forcing herself, she walked to his side and sank to her knees, staring at the cane handle protruding from his chest. He looked mildly surprised, as if Death had tapped him on the shoulder, startling him.

His eyes stared up at the rain falling into them. He couldn’t be alive, but she reached out and shook his shoulder gently. No, that wasn’t going to do anything. She felt for a pulse, her fingers trembling against his neck, feeling cold when she expected him to be warm.

There was no pulse.

She pulled her hand back to find her fingers coated with blood.

Nausea roared up through her.

She wiped her hands on her skirt. The hem was saturated with blood, the material wicking it upward.

Tears ripped out of her, the constriction in her throat making it difficult to breathe. She struggled to stand.

Gavin Whittaker, husband, Confederate, and captain, lay dead at her feet.

“Glynis?”

She turned with a sense of inevitability.

The rain subsided to a drizzle as Lennox stood on the gangplank unprotected. The wind blew his hair askew, and she wanted to freeze this picture of him: powerful, commanding, and a little mussed.

“Is that blood?” he asked, striding toward her.