The Scot Corsair Page 15

  "I wanted to know what was going on. Surely we are not arrived at Scotland already."

  "It is many years since I saw the motherland, your ladyship, but I doubt it has changed as much as that. No. This is São Miguel, an island of the Azores, and we are to make port at Ponta Delgada, which you can just see now if you squint against the sun."

  "Oh! To get in supplies?" Dinner for the last few days had defeated the ingenuity even of the cook from La Guiara, whose skills could not make salt beef and tack interesting or palatable.

  "That, of course, but for a more particular reason."

  Suddenly, Elspeth felt a swoop of fear. "Captain—you do not mean to—you are going to take me home, aren't you?"

  He stared at her. "Lady Elspeth. Do you doubt my honour?"

  "I—no." She hung her head.

  "We are stopping at Ponta Delgada," he said, in a colder tone, "so that I can attempt to purchase forged ship's papers, so that if we are boarded by the British authorities when we reach Scotland, I might stand a better chance of not being hung."

  "I wish you would stop saying that," she whispered.

  He sighed, and said in a kinder voice, "Go and put some clothes on, your ladyship. I don't want these good fellows to enjoy the sight of you dishabille too much."

  By the time she had dressed herself, an awkward process without the assistance of a maid, the Heron was approaching land so near that she could make out the buildings along the seafront quite distinctly. It was quite a sight; for the first time since setting sail from Portsmouth, she was looking upon proper stone buildings and what seemed to be a handsome, modern city. She was very surprised by the appearance of Ponta Delgada, knowing vaguely that the Azore Islands were isolated somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic and expecting to find another rackety collection of temporary-looking huts and hovels. Instead, the shorefront of Ponta Delgada gleamed white and orderly and substantial.

  "What did you expect? The Azores are an outpost of Portugal," said the Captain. "You are back in civilisation now, your ladyship."

  "Are there proper shops—theatres—assembly rooms?"

  He laughed shortly. "I have absolutely no idea, but you won't be visiting them if there are."

  "What? May I not go ashore here? It looks—as you say—perfectly civilised."

  "Aye, doubtless, but who would escort you?"

  "You might, sir," she said timidly.

  "And who would chaperone you?"

  "It is not my fault that my maid ran off with a blackamoor!"

  "A Scots Desdemona... Lady Elspeth, quite seriously, you cannot go ashore. I will be busy in my negotiations, which will doubtless take me into less salubrious quarters of town. Nobody else aboard is fit to accompany you and the fact remains, you have no female companion. For the sake of your own safety, you must remain aboard."

  "But I have been aboard a ship for weeks and weeks and weeks!"

  "Then a couple of weeks further won't kill you."

  "Yes they will! Oh Captain—please—please take me ashore, just for an afternoon, an hour! Would you not like to walk with me along that promenade?" She gave him what she hoped was her most winning, winsome look.

  "I have no intention of drawing more attention to myself than necessary," he said.

  She pouted and turned away. "Perhaps you are afraid I will run away and seek the protection of the Portuguese authorities. Perhaps it is more your profit than my safety that concerns you."

  She had meant this to be hurtful and to be denied by him, so when he said indifferently, "Aye, perhaps," she stomped off towards her cabin in a temper.

  She got the idea as she flounced across the deck towards her cabin, and saw that Stirling was examining one of the rowing boats lashed in their bays. When the Heron had docked at Freetown, they had lowered one of these boats and rowed her across the harbour to reach the shore, so she was familiar with their interior. The three boats were each covered at the moment with a cloth tarpaulin, which Stirling was lifting thoughtfully at one edge.

  Although she had avoided the man ever since their unfortunate interlude, and had been really dismayed to learn that he was the one member of the crew of the Chieftain who had chosen to come with them, the fact remained that he was the only other man on board who could speak English.

  "Mr Stirling," she said, imperiously.

  He turned, she thought, a rather cold eye on her. "My lady."

  "Will there be men going ashore today?"

  "Aye, my lady." He folded his arms across his chest.

  "Will they bring back fresh supplies before dinner time? I am heartily sick of salt meat."

  "I couldnae undertake to guarantee that, my lady. Maybe, maybe no."

  "Will you tell the Captain that I am going to lie down in my cabin, and do not wish to be disturbed on any account?"

  He said nothing in reply, but she would not injure her dignity by repeating herself. She turned her back on him and continued onward to her cabin.

  Once there, she pulled her travelling cloak out from the bottom of her trunk, and carrying it in a bundle, hastened back out onto the part of the deck where the launch boats were. Stirling had gone, and none of the scanty crew were immediately nearby. If the ship had anything like its full complement of crew, she could not help have been noticed by someone swarming up the rigging or working nearby, but the Captain had told her that he had hired the very minimum number of men necessary to sail the vessel.

  She lifted the tarpaulin from the same boat that Stirling had been inspecting. It was not very securely tied down, and it was an easy matter for her to slip underneath.

  Below the canopy, the air in the little boat was hot and close. She had observed, from her previous trips, that there was a large cavity just below the seat at the front, where the crew had stashed baskets of fruit from Freetown. It had idly occurred to her at the time that she might fit under there, and a trial now proved this supposition correct. It was not comfortable, but she was small and she could tuck herself so far into the recess that she thought it was unlikely that anyone would discover her unless they tried to put anything else there. And as they were on their way out to the shore, empty-handed, she thought that was unlikely.

  She folded herself as close as she could into the space, pulled her cloak round her, and prepared to wait.

  The pavement felt unreal, uncomfortable beneath her feet, giving her a giddy disorientated feeling on top of the elation that came with the success of her plan. It took some time to adjust to the sensation of ground that was not swaying, after so many weeks at sea. She could scarcely believe that she was really walking alone in the bright sunshine, on solid land, amidst chattering crowds who paid her no particular heed. If she looked odd, a young lady walking unaccompanied, nobody paid her the discourtesy of openly staring. Elspeth squared her shoulders and tried to stroll confidently, deflecting attention and interference with her manner.

  It was all so strange. The people looked foreign, but not altogether alien, as they had in Africa and South America. There were plenty of respectably dressed, well-groomed ladies and gentlemen on the streets, and she saw a little troop of beautifully turned-out small girls walking in a crocodile behind two nuns, one stout and elderly and the other young and pretty. Evidently, a girls' school on an afternoon outing. She stopped to watch them, feeling a swell of happiness at the sight, and a couple of the small scholars noticed her and whispered to each other. Elspeth caught the word Ingles, and she hurried on. Perhaps she was not as inconspicuous as she had thought, with her bright golden hair, fair complexion and cloak meant for far harsher climes.

  Her audacious scheme had gone without a hitch. Not very long after she concealed herself, there had been shouts and clatters and an inrush of air and light as the tarpaulin cover was removed. Then quite suddenly, the boat had lurched upwards. She had experienced a few moments of terror as the boat moved through the air, and even banged her head against the side as it dropped not too gently into the water. But the splashing and swaying steadie
d after a few moments, and soon she heard calls and laughter and thumps as rough legs and boots settled themselves mere inches from her face. Nobody looked under the front seat, nobody suspected that she was there. It was only a short journey to the dock, and Elspeth made sure of waiting at least five minutes after the last pair of boots set the boat rocking as they departed before she quickly unfolded herself into the blazing afternoon sun. The rowing boat was moored against a low sea wall, alongside a number of similar vessels. It was an easy enough, if inelegant manoeuvre to scramble up a short ladder, and then—she was free.

  She wandered the wide, clean, handsome streets of Ponta Delgado at random, relishing that freedom, allowing herself to be swirled into that throng of blessedly ordinary-looking people. For a time, she strolled around aimlessly, accustoming herself to the solid ground, gazing up at the white-fronted buildings and marvelling that they were made of unmoving blocks of stone. Windows had never appeared so extraordinary.

  She wandered into a church, cool and dim and scented, and stared in guilty fascination at the gilt statues, painted walls and elaborately realistic crucifix over the altar. It was popery, she knew, and therefore wicked, and she ought not to admire it; but this church was so very much more beautiful than the dull edifice at Dunwoodie, with its plain whitewashed walls and stark wooden pews. She wasn't sure whether it was right to do so, but she curtseyed towards the ornamented altar and murmured a brief prayer for her father's soul and her own safe return home. Then, seeing a priest all in black emerging from some inner door, she scurried away before she could be turned out as a heretic.

  Another corner, turned at random just outside the church, brought her into a street lined with shops on one side and stalls on the other. Her spirits mounted higher as she browsed flowers and fabrics, teapots and pineapples, beads and baskets. She could not speak a word in common with the stallholders, but they all saw that she was likely to be a wealthy enough young lady, and were eager to communicate in any way they could. There was a little difficulty over her coins, which were of course Scottish and not of the local currency; but sixpences and shillings were silver, and the tradespeople knew silver when they saw it. She suspected that she was making some very poor bargains, but she didn't care. With a combination of hand signals, smiles and silver, she managed to negotiate the purchase of two panels of very pretty lace, an exquisitely beaded silk reticule, and a string of delicately carved amber beads.

  These trifling items were bought from the stalls, which were easy to browse amongst; but then her eye was caught by a very fine hat in a shop window on the other side of the street, and she felt bold enough to venture into the milliner's.

  The moment she stepped over the threshold, she was conscious that she had made a mistake. There were only two people in the shop; a severe-looking older lady, dressed all in black as if in deep mourning, and a young woman around Elspeth's own age with a downcast air. The girl was fastening a ribbon to a bonnet, and the older woman was seated in a high-backed chair, sewing something. As Elspeth pushed open the door, which made a bell jangle loudly over her head, the older woman put aside her work and rose forbiddingly to her feet. The girl froze in the act of pinning up the bonnet, and stared as if she had never seen such an alarming sight as a fair-skinned, golden-haired young lady, well dressed and quite alone.

  The older woman said something, looking suspicious and censorious.

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand," Elspeth said, flustered. "Do you—do you speak English, madam?"

  The reply was another stream of sharp foreign words, and a frown was deepening between the woman's brows.

  If only she had still had Birnie with her! Mistress and maid might have walked the streets together and entered shops without appearing amiss. The older woman, whom Elspeth supposed must be the proprietrix of the shop, was actually casting her glance about through the glass panes of the door, as if searching for her chaperone or escort.

  "I wanted to look at your—hats?" Elspeth mimed putting one on her head, but the kind of charade which had satisfied the stallholders outside drew a blank, chilly look from the proprietrix of the milliner's.

  She opened her reticule and displayed a handful of coins, including the two gold sovereigns she had brought with her in case she saw something expensive that caught her fancy. "I have money? You see? Mo-ney."

  The girl gave a sudden giggle. Elspeth turned on her sharply. She was standing with the ribbon dangling from her hand, disregarded, her eyes brightened by the unexpected spectacle of a mad, wandering foreign lady.

  Her mistress spoke a sharp word of reproof, at which she flinched and went back to her work, then turned to Elspeth and said something that did not sound friendly.

  Elspeth wanted to scream and stamp her foot in frustration. She wanted to shout, do you not know who I am? I am Lady Elspeth Dunwoodie, daughter of the thirteenth Marquess of Crieff, and you are a Portuguese milliner. How dare you speak disrespectfully to me? But even if she had given way to an outburst, it would have been quite pointless. The imbecile woman wouldn't understand a word she said.

  How could anyone be so stupid as to not understand English? Even the crofting folk back home knew what you said to them, for all they talked in the Gaelic amongst themselves.

  "Oh, keep your wretched hats!" she cried, and marched out of the shop.

  Back on the street, she felt more conscious than before of her solitary state. She glanced back and saw to her disquiet that the sinister milliner woman had actually left the interior of her shop and was standing in the doorway watching her go. It must be obvious to the shopkeeper now that she did indeed have no companion.

  Well, it was not actually a crime, was it? It was a breach of propriety, a rather conspicuous one like appearing out of doors without a hat, but surely even in a foreign land she could not be arrested for walking out alone.

  She ducked into a narrow side street to evade the beady black eyes of the milliner. At once, the bright sunshine vanished, and she found herself engulfed in shade. The lane seemed to have no doorways or windows, but high blank walls at either side. It turned a bend, and afforded a glimpse of a courtyard of sorts at the end, with the white facing that covered every wall in this town decaying and crumbling away. Leprous was the word that came to mind, and she shuddered. That did not, after all, look like anywhere she wanted to go.

  She turned to retrace her steps, and found herself looking straight into the face of a thin, dirty man.

  He grabbed her before she could draw breath to scream. One ragged arm was tight across her chest, the other flashed something silver before her eyes.

  As she realised that the bright thing was a blade, she did scream.

  The man tightened his grip roughly and snarled something into her ear. He smelled fetid, like something already dead and rotting.

  "I'm sorry—I don't—I don't understand you..." she gasped.

  He shook her and spat meaningless words. She felt a coldness against her neck and realised that he was pressing the blade to her skin.

  "I don't understand you—I don't—please don't hurt me!"

  He repeated his incomprehensible demand, then tried to make a grab at her bags.

  Sheer fury flared up inside her and she gripped them to her as tight as possible. "No! You are not getting my things, you horrid man! And—take a bath!"

  Her resistance seemed to surprise the thief, who slackened his grip momentarily. She tore herself away, panting, and tried to run. She knew she ought to flee towards the street, where there were people who might help her, but her attacker stood between her and that direction. Instead, she took off towards the courtyard.

  She managed only a few steps before he was on her again, grabbing hold of the folds of her cloak and making her stumble forward as she fought to escape his grasp. He growled something fiercely and she tripped, sprawling to the cobblestones.

  She did not let go of her bags even as she fell, banging her elbow rather than relinquish her grip. She ignored the pain and tried to scramb
le back to her feet before he could grab at her again, but the man was shouting now and the blade was flashing two inches from her eyes.

  Elspeth froze. She saw it very, very clearly, a short shining sliver of silver with rusty stains upon its surface and a sharp, sharp edge. And she thought, quite calmly, that if its tip came any nearer to her nose and cheek then she would never find a husband.

  The knife moved. Elspeth closed her eyes. She felt nothing, and opened them again. The knife was gone; or rather, as she looked slowly downwards, she saw it lying on the cobbles at her feet where it had tumbled from the outstretched hand of the thief.

  The thief, who had folded to his knees with a sound that was more like a hiss than a cry. Elspeth started backwards as blood seeped over the cobbles, and she felt a blow to her hip that proved to be her attacker collapsing forward; while she herself was seized by the wrist and whirled clear of the falling man, into the firm, familiar-smelling arms of the pirate Captain.

  Never had Elspeth felt such exquisite relief and thankfulness. She pressed herself against his chest, under the safety of his encircling arm, while he stood with his sword still drawn over the fallen thief.

  The man was struggling to his knees, his hand clasped to his side, blood dripping slowly through his fingers.

  The Captain stooped to take possession of the knife, then said something in a low, sharp voice. With one scared backwards glance, the thief stumbled to his feet and scurried away unsteadily towards the courtyard at the end of the lane. Elspeth had time to see that his feet were bare and filthy before he rounded the corner and was gone.

  "Are you unharmed?" the Captain demanded, wiping the blade of the knife on a rag from his pocket and studying it critically before putting it in his pocket.

  "Yes—yes—thank heavens and thank you, sir. And he got nothing from me."

  "Are you really such a fool that you congratulate yourself on that? You should have handed over every brass farthing the moment you saw that blade. It's little enough to you, your ladyship. The poor cur was like as not trying to feed a starving family. But that's by the by. He had a knife. You risked your life for trinkets. Your life!" And with a sudden furious sweep of his arm, he tore the bags from her numbed fingers and threw them onto the ground.