She thought her heart would hammer out of her chest. Unreadable, unpredictable, unnerving. The man was throwing her off balance.

“Only that I find it amusing.” He shrugged. “Marjorie Keith, a spinster.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I'll pull my hair back.”

“Not on my account.”

“Oh no, Cormac,” she said with mock sincerity. “You are absolutely correct. I mustn't forget, I am playing the part of a wealthy lady. I shall immerse myself entirely.”

He gave her a quick nod. She imagined she saw a flicker of unease on his face, and it gratified her.

“Though, Cormac,” she said sweetly, “I will, of course, need your help.”

“You need help?”

“Oh yes, I usually have a maid for these things.” She wandered to the small mirror that hung by the bedside and, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck, studied herself intently. “If we're playing the part of a wealthy couple, and I find myself traveling without my maid, why then, you will need to act the part.”

“Of your maid?” he said incredulously.

“Well… not that precisely.” It took effort, but she tossed off her best carefree giggle. “But the part of a dutiful husband, certainly.”

Dutiful husband. Marjorie couldn't tell if his answering silence was fury or if it might possibly be related to the strange internal quivering she knew she felt at the prospect.

“I've brought my ivory comb for just such a purpose.” Letting go of her hair, she lowered her arms, and she caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Though she'd been having a hard time reading him, she thought Cormac's current look was decidedly not fury.

She dug her comb from her satchel and tossed it on the mattress. “I can gather my hair into a knot,” she said, willing her voice to calm. “I'll just need you to tuck it for me.” Reaching her arms behind her head, she felt her bodice pull tight. And though she studiously avoided looking at him, Marjorie felt Cormac's eyes on her. Her heart pounded mercilessly. “The angle is too awkward for me, you see.” Fighting to master her suddenly inept fingers, she smoothed her hair, winding it into a bun at the base of her neck. She swallowed hard. “Now if you'll be so kind… “ She nodded to the ivory comb on the bed.

He picked it up, and all she registered was his large, strong hand on the mattress where she'd been sleeping just hours before. Marjorie blinked hard. Why had she put the comb on the bed?

She curled her fingers tighdy into her bun. She'd remain composed. She wouldn't let him see her fingers tremble.

“All you need to—”

“So how do I—”

They each spoke over the other. She laughed nervously, but Cormac remained as stoic as ever.

“Simply make sure the hair is smooth,” she said, sweeping her hand up from the bottom of the bun.

He reached out with the comb, and their hands brushed. His was warm, and she pictured the broad strength of it.

She imagined that hand stroking her hair, cupping the back of her head.

“Yes, that's it.” She cursed the breathy sound of her voice. “Now simply push the comb down, securing it… “ She tapered off, feeling the gentle touch of his fingers.

It was such a novel thing, his touch. New and unfamiliar, yet she imagined she'd somehow recognize the feel of his hands anywhere.

She realized he'd finished and experienced a peculiar moment of loss.

“And there!” she exclaimed overly brightly. She gave herself one last look in the mirror. “I am a wealthy lady.” She turned to face him, but Cormac was already halfway across the room. She felt her shoulders slump. Strange, surly, incomprehensible man. So much for her dutiful husband.

Husband. Marjorie's eyes narrowed. The man avoided her gaze and instead bustled about their tiny room as if suddenly plagued by a battery of menial tasks.

A slow smile dawned on her face. Husband indeed.

If Cormac wanted her to play a part, a part is exactly what he would get.

Chapter 16

“Oh, Hughie,” Marjorie cooed, “I couldn't possibly set foot on such a filthy boat.”

“Hughie?” Cormac muttered. He began to pull away, so she leaned in, gripping his arm more tightly. He scanned the harbor and its bustle of people, and then shot her a wicked look. “'Tis known as a ship, Gormelia, not a boat.” He hadn't bothered to pitch his voice lower.

She frowned. Cormac would be harder to bait than she'd thought.

Shielding her eyes from the glare, Marjorie took in the massive vessel at the end of the pier. Of the ships newly docked in Justice Port, only two were large enough to accommodate a hold full of slaves: the Oliphant and the Venture.

She'd thought the Venture had sounded the likelier of the two for nefarious dealings, but subtle inquiries and a few strolls nearby had turned up nothing more suspect than a gaggle of missionaries bound for the tropics.

They wandered toward the Oliphant instead, and as they approached, she stared, goggle-eyed. As a resident of Aberdeen, Marjorie had seen ships before, but as a gently bred woman, never had she dreamed of seeing one this close. It was vast, with three masts, a battery of cannons, and a belly easily broad enough to accommodate a cargo full of slaves.

A shiver ran up her spine. Davie.

The Oliphant was grand indeed, and she felt sure Davie was on board. She stared, trying to imagine where he might be and how they might get on board to save him. They were close now, and the thrill of it was exhilarating.

The ship buzzed with activity, an entire world unto itself. Sailors busily loaded supplies, wheeling carts and rolling barrels aboard, preparing for what appeared to be a long voyage. There was so much hustle and bustle, if their initial plan pretending to buy slaves failed, surely there was some way she and Cormac could simply sneak onto the ship and find him.

On deck, sea-weathered men shouted orders, cleaning, scurrying, and most staitling of all, climbing. “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing to the men clambering up amid the sails. “There are men up high. They look so tiny and faraway, like wee birds flying up the ropes.”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “I'm certain Davie is on board. I can just feel it. How I wish we could just storm aboard this instant and get him.”

She glanced up at Cormac, and the blank look on his face squelched her excitement.

“They're called lines,” he told her flatly. “Not ropes. Lines. 'Tis the ship's rigging.”

“Oh.” They continued to stare, quiet for a moment, and then she sighed, “Rigging.” Marjorie shook her head as though dumbfounded. “Oh, Lord Brodie, you are so very wise. Indeed, the cleverest of all men. I thank you for enlightening your dimwitted bride.”

His lip twitched. A smile?

She appreciated the gravity with which Cormac approached their mission, but they were so close now, there was no reason it couldn't be an adventure they shared. Last night's laughter over his Bridget story had been too great a pleasure — she wanted more. Marjorie decided she'd get her ill-tempered Lord Brodie to smile before the day was through.

“But what a name,” she said, turning her attention back to the ship. “Oliphant?”

“Aye, like that comb in your hair.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“Ivory, lass. Tusks… ivory. Oliphant, as in… “ His voice petered out, and she felt as much as heard his distraction.

“You mean ele-?”

Normally she might have badgered Cormac for so rudely ordering her to silence, but that had been before her last visit to the docks. Every muscle in her body froze, except for her heart, which thudded powerfully in her chest.

Not again.

She eased closer to him, grateful she had his arm to hold. At least she wasn't in men's trews this time.

“Don't move,” he whispered. “A man stands behind us.”

Moving was the farthest thing from her mind. In fact, merely breathing had become an effort.

“I daresay, you two make an unlikely pair of visitors.”

Cormac stiffened at the sound of the stranger's voice.

“You've taken a fancy to the Oliphant, I see.”

Placing a steadying hand at her back, Cormac slowly faced the newcomer. The man was not much older than forty, solidly built, with dark hair. And, Marjorie realized, he wasn't unattractive. He had quite a pleasant face, really. Smiling, her shoulders eased in relief.

Cormac, however, remained tense at her side. “You are… ?”

“Why, I suppose I could ask the same thing.” The stranger broke into a broad smile, which he aimed right at Marjorie.

Frowning, Cormac sidled closer to her.

“But it is you who are the newcomers to my wee corner of Aberdeen, and so I shall be the one to bid welcome.” He swept a bow. “Malcolm Forbes. Aberdeen bailie, at your service.”

“I am Hugh Brodie, and this is my wife, Lady Gormelia.”

The sincerity bled from her smile. That ridiculous name.

“Forbes,” Marjorie exclaimed, the pieces falling into place. He must be the one who was a friend of Archie's father. “But of course I've heard of you.”

While she returned the man's smile, Cormac's hand slid to grip her waist. Firmly.

She cursed her eager — and unthinking — response. She'd heard of Forbes because she hailed from Aberdeen. Lady Gormelia, however, could claim no such thing. She decided to amend the error at once. “Are you the Forbes from Lanarkshire?”

She'd caught Cormac's grimace, and she stood a little taller. She thought hers a fine enough ruse, as ruses went.

“Oh dear no,” the bailie said. “I and my five magistrate peers all hail from Aberdeen.”

“Did you hear that, my little trout?” Cormac said tightly. “Aberdeen has six bailies. Truly we're far from the banks of the Clyde now.”

Little trout? Little trout? Did he just call her his little trout? She could concede that referring to him as Hughie might be construed as goading, but the maddening man just raised the stakes.