Devil In Tartan. Julia London

piss!”

      “By all that is holy, I’ll put me bloody fist into yer trap if you speak so in front of the lady again,” Morven threatened.

      “Ye canna expect us to eat with our wrists bound,” complained another.

      “You ate the bread we gave you well enough, aye?” Mr. MacLean snapped. The men began to shout again.

      “Please!” Lottie cried. A sharp pain was once again throbbing at the base of her skull, but the men kept shouting and arguing with one another. Lottie took the gun from her pocket, cocked it and fired at the ceiling above them. The crack was deafening and splinters of wood and smoke rained down on them. Men ducked, their hands covering their heads.

      After a moment of stunned silence, a Mackenzie said, “For the love of God, take the gun from her, ere she kills someone.”

      “I’ll no’ do it,” Duff said. “She’s a better shot than any man here, she is.”

      Lottie hopped up onto a crate so she could see them all. “Listen! I know you’re all verra angry, aye?” she said, breathless with anxiety. “All of us,” she said, gesturing to all the Livingstones around her, “are verra sorry for the situation that has brought us to this—”

      “’Tis piracy!” The Mackenzie men began to shout again. “What have you done with Beaty? Where is Captain Mackenzie?”

      “Let us see them!” someone shouted, which roused the rest of them to shout at her, too.

      Duff held up both arms and whistled again. When they had quieted, he said grandly, “Say no more, miss. I’ve already told the devils what we’re about, that I have.”

      “Why in the name of Hades do you speak like a king to his subjects?” groused a Mackenzie man.

      “Perhaps because I’ve had the good fortune of receiving my theatrical training at the Goodman’s Fields Theatre in London!”

      “The what?”

      “The theatre!” Duff bellowed, always quite impatient with any poor soul who did not hold theatre in the same high regard as he.

      “All right, thank you,” Lottie said, and moved in front of Duff before he commenced a sermon. “We’ll bring food to you now, and on my word, we’ll bring Beaty down so that you can look on him and know he is quite all right, aye?”

      “And what of Captain Mackenzie?” someone demanded.

      “Beaty will see him and he’ll vouch that he’s quite all right. But we must hold him close until we reach our destination. You’d do the same, would you no’?”

      “We’d no’ steal another man’s ship!” said one crossly.

      “Aye,” she said. A thought popped into her head—she’d never known a man who did not respond to money. “That’s why we mean to compensate you for your trouble.”

      Duff and MacLean gasped at the same moment. “Lottie—”

      “We will,” she said firmly. “’Tis only fair.”

      “We lost six casks,” MacLean muttered behind her.

      “Aye, and we might lose all if we donna have a care.”

      “How much?” a Mackenzie asked.

      “Five percent more than the wage your captain means to pay you.” Her gut dropped a wee bit the moment the words were out of her mouth. She hoped that was not extravagant. Perhaps it was, as her men were gaping at her. And the Mackenzies looked confused. She’d spoken too hastily, perhaps, but she had to make it sound worth their while. Except that she really had no idea how they would pay these men, and she could see from the concerned look on Mr. MacLean’s face that he didn’t, either. Diah, she was beginning to behave like her father, making promises she couldn’t possibly keep without thought. But the shouting had stopped and the men were looking around at each other, interested. It did seem only fair. It seemed the only way to convince the Mackenzies that they had not stolen their ship with ill intent. Well, she’d said it, and there was no pulling the words back into her mouth. If they didn’t make enough from the sale of the whisky, there was another way to compensate them. Mr. MacColl was still on Lismore, still pining for her.

      Her stomach did a queer little flip, and she swallowed down that thought. She couldn’t think of that now and looked at Duff. “Have we something to feed these gentlemen?”

      “Fish stew,” Duff said. “Yesterday’s catch.”

      “Stew? How will we manage?” she asked.

      “With our hands and one at a time,” said Duff. He reached up to put his hand on Drustan’s shoulder. “And we’ve a lad who might crush the head of any man who tries to keep us from it.”

      “I donna want to crush heads!” Drustan exclaimed fearfully.

      “Well I donna mean there will be an actual need, lad,” Duff said.

      “Morven?” Lottie said. “The dressing on my father’s wound needs attention.”

      “Aye, I’ll fetch a few things, then,” Morven said and started for the steps up to the main deck.

      “Fear no’,” said Duff, bowing his head. “Drustan and MacLean and I will keep all in order.” He cast a stern look to his captives.

      “Bloody Shakespeare is serving us fish, lads,” said a Mackenzie, and they laughed roundly as Lottie made her way out of the hold.

      When she emerged on the deck, Lottie paused and adjusted the heavy greatcoat around her. The rain had turned to mist, but the coat she wore was soaked. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath and her bed to chase away the chill and this horrible day, to perhaps ease the ache in her head. She wondered, as she trudged along to the quarterdeck, if she’d ever have a proper bath again, or if this voyage would be the end of her. All signs pointed to the latter.

      Well, she wasn’t done yet. The day had been disastrous, but they were still alive, still had that damn whisky. As her mother always said, “One step before the next, and again.” So...one step before the next. She withdrew her gun from her pocket as she started up the steps to the quarterdeck.

      Norval was still standing guard on the quarterdeck. Gilroy had taken over the wheel, and Beaty was squatting down beside a small brazier where he held a stick with pieces of fish over a small flame. He glanced up as Lottie neared him, and even in the dim light, she could see him blanch when he saw her gun. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on it. “What’s that for, then?”

      “Donna you mind it. Come with me, please.”

      Beaty snorted. “You mean to escort me with a gun to me head?” He laughed with great derision.

      Lottie lifted the gun and pointed it at his head. Behind him, Gilroy’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “It’s no’ for your head, sir, but your captain’s. If I see any trickery, he’ll pay the price.”

      Beaty looked at the gun in her hand. Was it possible for him to tell the gun was empty? She’d shot its only bit of lead into the ceiling above the Mackenzie crew. “I could take that wee gun and toss you over with one hand, lass,” he said darkly.

      She knew that, quite obviously, but she called his bluff. She cocked the gun. “Try,” she said.

      Gilroy recovered from his shock and slowly smiled. “Did I no’ say that you ought not to trifle with the Livingstones?” he asked proudly.

      “I thought you were Larsons,” Beaty drawled. “Have you lost your mind, lass?” he asked. “Have you no’ put yourself in enough peril?”

      “Aye, without a doubt, I have,” she agreed. “But I’ll no’ allow you to put me in more peril. Come,” she said, gesturing to the stairs.

      Muttering beneath his breath, Beaty stalked toward the steps. She followed him to the captain’s