In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (9 page)

Having to lay off a third of the employees had been difficult, but he’d originally hoped it would be enough to keep the mill open. They were still doomed, not because of the competition from Manchester or the loss of the contract for wicking. He couldn’t get any raw material. He couldn’t loom nonexistent cotton.

His father had had a way of looking at everything
in the best possible light. “Duncan, my boy,” he’d say, “there’s nothing so bad that you can’t find some good in it.”

He was trying to find something to celebrate in this situation but hadn’t come up with anything. Nor did he have any solutions. Short of sailing to America himself, he was out of ideas. He’d rejected every idea but one because it didn’t produce the one thing he needed: cotton.

For a while he’d seriously contemplated Lennox’s offer of help. If he took money from the other man, it would forever alter their friendship, and he didn’t have all that many friends left.

The idea of closing the mill and turning his back on his family’s business, one he’d learned since boyhood, was anathema to him. He liked that, in busier times, the floor of his office vibrated with the clacking rhythm of hundreds of looms. Their cotton was the finest in Scotland, just as each employee at MacIain Mill, all seven hundred sixty-three of them, were the most dedicated and loyal in Glasgow.

Coming into the mill each day was an indictment, a demonstration of his failure. If he didn’t do something, every single person would be gone, the mill shuttered, the windows boarded up, and the doors chained.

What would his father think of his plan, even now growing more substantial? Something Lennox said had started his thoughts in that direction.

Sometimes, bold action was required. He was a MacIain, a family heralded for their courage.

It was time he acted the part.

G
AVIN
W
HITTAKER
stood on the dock, staring at the ship soon to be his. The
Raven
was the most beautiful vessel he’d ever seen.

Her twin smokestacks were painted gray, her hull
the same color, with a black line indicating where the cladding began. An iron and steel paddle wheeler, she had a length of nearly three hundred feet and an eleven-foot draft. She could carry a crew of sixty-six, had five watertight compartments and four boilers. Fully loaded, she could still outrun anything sailing today.

Wait until they encountered the blockade. She’d fly right past the Union bastards. No one would forget her once they saw her lines or her speed.

Too bad they’d already named her
Raven.
Gavin would have christened her “Ghost,” because he intended to slip past the Union blockade just like an ethereal being.

His life, his honor, his single-minded purpose, was wrapped up in this ship.

A damned shame so much deception had to be part of the initial voyage. When he sailed from Glasgow, his destination would officially be listed as Bermuda. A few Scots would accompany him to Wales, where he’d rendezvous with his Confederate crew. After their cargo was loaded they’d set off for Savannah, with a stop at Nassau to make sure Lucy was settled.

On his outgoing trip from Georgia he’d be carrying cotton and mail, bound for Nassau. After a few days with Lucy, he’d run the blockade again, intent on furnishing his fellow southerners with those commodities needed to survive the war.

He’d received word from his first mate that the weapons and ammunition had arrived, ready to load. His crew was waiting. The
Raven
would be handed over to him in a week, and the money transferred to Cameron and Company.

The plan, however, was marred by only one thing: Lucy.

In England, she’d been demure and accommodating,
reminding him of the women he knew. She smiled often, was gracious to people and polite to a fault.

She’d been the sweetest thing in England. He’d found himself besotted on the spot. Never having believed in love at first sight, he found it strange he should be afflicted in such a manner. But she had bright sparkling eyes and the most enchanting smile. He knew his sisters and mother would adore her when they met.

Something happened on their arrival in Scotland. She’d become querulous and argumentative. She hated Scotland. She hated the idea of living in America.

He wasn’t sure what she did like, but he knew for certain what annoyed her.

Lucy was providing the kind of problem he wasn’t sure he could handle. Give him an entire fleet of Union ships trying to block his way and he’d sail right through them.

Give him a complaining woman, however, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

W
hen they arrived back at Hillshead, a carriage was in the drive. Glynis suspected it belonged to Lennox since the side lamps had been replaced by brass anchor lanterns.

Her stomach shouldn’t clench at the sight. Nor should her palms become damp.

In the last seven years she’d met the President of the United States, along with numerous dignitaries. She’d been forced to deal with cabinet secretaries and their wives. More than one British diplomat’s wife, as well as Mrs. Lincoln, had attempted to intimidate her.

Lennox wasn’t going to succeed where they’d failed.

“I won’t be any time at all, Glynis,” her mother said.

She nodded, grateful not to have to escort Lucy into Hillshead. The woman grated on her. But she smiled and made her farewells with a grace she’d been taught and had practiced over the years.

A few minutes later the door opened and she moved her skirt aside, thinking it was her mother returning as quickly as she’d promised. Instead of Eleanor, however, Lennox entered the carriage, his size making the space feel even more confined.

In Washington she could converse about a variety of inane subjects. The skill left her as he settled on the opposite seat, staring at her as if she were a creature from the depths of Loch Lomond.

He took his time perusing her, from the top of her hair, which wasn’t as neat as it had been this morning, to her shoes, muddy from the excursion through the Botanic Gardens. She was certain she was wrinkled as well. The deep mauve fabric with the embroidered collar and cuffs was a pleasing dress, but it was designed for a woman to sit in the parlor and read, not an entire day of sightseeing and exploration.

Did he think her changed? Or would she be forever ten years old to him, dressed in a soiled pinafore and climbing a tree? Did he recall when she raced Rainbow, her pony, down the river road? Or what about the time she’d been tossed off another horse, only to land in the mud unhurt and furious that he’d witnessed the whole thing?

She firmed her lips so they didn’t tremble, forcing herself to return his stare.

Even now, at the end of the day, he looked like he’d just left his chamber and was about to go to the yard, not returning from it. His shirt was white and crisp below his dark blue jacket. His trousers bore a crease but not one speck of dust. His black shoes gleamed with a shine.

“Have you finished inspecting me?” she asked, looking away.

“You’ve grown more beautiful in the last seven years.”

Her heart stopped at those words. Her mind urged it forward. This was just Lennox being charming. Lennox being conciliatory. What else could he say?
Glynis, you’re haggard in your mourning.

“Thank you.”

Seven years ago she might have preened or even flirted with him. She’d thought herself a beauty, known she was destined for great things.

Seven years ago she’d been an arrogant child.

In Washington she’d been a minor celebrity. Mrs. Richard Smythe, the wife of the British attaché.
My dear, you must simply attend one of her dinners. I don’t know where she got her chef but the food and the discussions are unforgettable. Convince her, if you can, to invite you to one of her salons. They’re the talk of Washington. Even Mr. Lincoln attends periodically
.

She’d overheard those remarks and more. For a time the approval from people she admired had been enough. A funny thing, however, about admiration, praise, or notoriety. It had no value without someone with whom to share it.

Richard expected her to be a great hostess. That’s why he’d married her at nineteen and spent so much effort and money to train her in the role he wished her to assume. If he’d heard those comments, he never told her. He wouldn’t have said something like,
Well done, darling. You’re just what they need.
Instead, he would have congratulated himself on his ability to train a Glasgow girl.

She didn’t expect behavior from Richard that he’d never promised. Theirs wasn’t a love match but a business arrangement. He desired a conformable wife who would do him honor. She desperately wanted away from Scotland and the man who sat in front of her now.

What an utter fool she’d been.

Being around Lennox made her feel awkward. She felt nineteen again, desperately in love and foolish with it.

“I shouldn’t have followed you to the Necropolis,” he said. “It was wrong of me.”

She glanced at him, trying to discern the motive behind his apology. One thing Washington had taught her: people almost always had a hidden reason for doing or saying something.

“Thank you,” she said.

“But I meant what I said about Baumann.”

She was willing to accept his apology, but his warning grated on her. She was no longer nineteen and naive.

“Baumann isn’t a man to underestimate,” she said. “Have you posted guards on your ships?”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze never left her.

“If you haven’t, I suggest you put them in place. Don’t assume that Baumann is the only Union spy in Glasgow.”

When he smiled, she frowned at him.

“I don’t mean me,” she said, shaking her head. “I heard you were building blockade runners in Washington. Baumann knows that as well. I wouldn’t be surprised what he’s discovered since coming to Scotland.”

“You seem familiar with the war.”

“You can’t help knowing something, living in Washington.”

“So they’re talking about my ships there?”

Once more she nodded.

“What else have you heard?”

She smiled. “That you pose a danger to the Union. That you’re single-handedly trying to outfit the Confederate navy. Are your blockade runners that good?”

“Better,” he said. “The
Raven
is the fastest ship I’ve ever built.”

“Something else Baumann probably knows.”

“Which side are you on, Glynis?”

“I’m not on one side or another. It no longer matters. Too many good men have died on both sides. What does it matter to win a war when you’ve lost all your young men?”

She looked away, unable to hold his gaze. Clasping her hands together tightly, she took a deep breath and pretended a calm she didn’t feel.

He was too close in the confines of the carriage. She could reach out and touch his trouser-covered knee. She could stroke his leg, shocking him. She might even launch herself at him and kiss him again.

That would take his mind off Baumann and the war.

The image was so real that she could almost feel his mouth beneath hers, his arms tightening around her waist. But in the next instant it was gone, the impulsive girl she’d been buried beneath the proper and demure Mrs. Smythe.

She cleared her throat. “You need to be concerned about Mrs. Whittaker,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You should caution her not to go around telling everyone her husband is a Confederate. Knowing how well gossip travels in Glasgow, Baumann is probably aware of that, too.”

“She said that?”

She nodded.

“The woman’s a scunner,” he said.

Lennox pronounced some words with an English inflection. Some sounded French, while others had a Russian flavor. Now he sounded definitely like a Scot.

“A nuisance?” she asked, biting back her smile. “Why are she and her husband staying with you?” Her question was intrusive and none of her concern so she half expected him not to answer.

“Three men were murdered in Glasgow recently,” he said. “All Americans.”

“So you’re protecting them at your own peril? And your family’s?”

He stared right through her. Did no one ever question Lennox? Had he grown so autocratic since she’d last seen him?

“They won’t be staying much longer,” he finally said.

“Is it safe? Are you in any danger?”

Was she revealing too much by asking that question? He studied her in those moments, the silence stretching between them like a web, binding them to this place and time.

She could feel the tension rise in her body the longer he regarded her. Her shoulders ached; her stomach clenched and her fingers trembled. What did he see in her? What was he looking for?

Unable to bear his scrutiny one more second, she turned and looked out the window, willing her mother to hurry or Lennox to leave. When she heard the carriage door open and close a moment later, she blew out a breath.