hoping to get caught. Her father, a man concerned about public opinion above all else, would have no choice but to accept the match and she’d be forced to marry the man who’d just attacked her.
But then again, there were always choices. Which was why she now sat in the hull of some boat headed somewhere that wasn’t London.
And she’d never see the so-called honorable Maxwell Hughes again.
Ewan McLaren sat at his desk as he poured over the ledgers in front of him. They’d dropped off several crates in London and had loaded more freight to return to Scotland. A careful tally had to be kept of goods and coin that entered and left the ship. Keeping the books wasn’t his favorite part of the job, he could confess that, but he had a good eye for it and so he did the work himself. Besides, when one ran a business as large as Carrington Shipping, remaining in touch with the details was important.
Only recently, a ring of thieves had infiltrated their ranks and set about stealing from them with a regularity that still made his blood boil.
Fortunately, he and his partners had solved the mystery and rooted out the thieves, but something in the task had left Ewan bone weary.
He didn’t wish to go home exactly. While his father had passed a few years back, making him laird, his mother remained at the family estate and staying any length of time always proved unpleasant. But the trips to and from Scotland had grown…tiresome.
His life had become an endless cycle of work, stopping thieves, and work again.
He had reconnected with his English cousins, all of whom had married recently. They appeared…happy. For now. But his experience with marriage, thanks to his parents, had taught him that happiness and matrimony did not coexist for any length of time.
He sat back in his chair, kicking one massive leg up on his desk. Perhaps he should take a boat and sail to France. Drink wine and enjoy the scenery.
Or he could go further. To some island where the sun shined more days than not, and the birds were brightly colored.
“Laird McLaren,” his first mate Cutter called as he knocked on the door. “There’s a matter that needs yer attention.”
“A matter?” he asked, his foot thumping back down on the floor. “At this time of night?”
Had the men been fighting? He let out a rumble of dissatisfaction. He’d break some heads if they had. Even among Scots, Ewan was large. A head taller than many and thickly muscled, men obeyed him, generally without question.
“Aye, my lord,” Cutter replied from the other side of the door. “I’m afraid it’s a bit delicate.”
Delicate? What did that mean? Men fighting was rarely delicate. Had there been a fire? A theft? No good options, he was certain of that. He wrenched open the door, then stared down at Cutter. “Explain,” he said, his voice clipped with impatience. Not at the man, himself. But trouble rarely aged well. He wanted details posthaste.
Cutter swallowed, his hands clasping in front of him. “Well. To put it succinctly, we’ve got a stowaway.”
“Bloody Christ,” he mumbled to himself. Stowaways were always a nasty business. Did he throw the man overboard? Doing so would be cruel, he knew, but the alternative was dropping him at the next port. The problem there was that Carrington Shipping might get a reputation as the ships to board when one wished for free passage. A small problem became a large one then. And he’d just finished solving a large problem at great cost. “Where is the bugger?”
Cutter winced. Which only served to make more apprehension tighten Ewan’s muscles. “In the galley.”
“Ye’er feeding him?” Ewan cried.
Cutter took a step back. “No, my lord. Well, aye, my lord. But…”
“But what…” Ewan barked, growing impatient with this entire conversation.
Cringing, Cutter took another half step back. “It’s not a him, it’s a her.”
A woman? A deep growl rumbled out of his chest. That was sure to cause all sorts of problems. Women weren’t generally allowed on ships such as these for many excellent reasons. Throwing her off was out of the question, but keeping her was liable to cause a great deal of problems with the crew.
Cutter held up his hands. “It gets worse.”
“Worse?” he said, the volume of his voice rising.
“She’s…” Cutter groaned, looking miserable. “Really, really, pretty. The men have all but stopped working, they’re gawking by the galley and—”
“Enough.” Ewan stepped into the hall, slamming his door shut as