Alasdair
The room is quiet as I sit on the side of my bed, running my fingers through my hair with frustration. I gave up trying to sleep, so I head down to the library. It takes time to adjust to the stillness of land after being at sea for so long. That and the silence. Aboard ship, I become accustomed to the language of the ocean—the loud creaks as she sways, the rhythmic sound of her hull crashing through the waves, the wind as it changes direction and whips the sails until the strong fabric fills with a thundering clap. It’s a sailor’s lullaby and ensures a peaceful slumber. But here, back on land, my resting mind gets confused by the lack of movement and sound, and my dreams turn dark with fear that something has gone terribly wrong with my ship, and sleep becomes impossible.
Unfortunately, somethinghasgone terribly wrong, but it has nothing to do with my ship, and everything to do with the fierce young lady that has taken up occupancy in my mind.
My footsteps echo through the silent halls as I follow the path to my sanctuary. It is the one place I am grounded. Whether in Scotland, aboard my ship, or here in London, my library is where I find peace and comfort, surrounded by a plethora of words, knowledge, and wisdom I have yet to learn. It is the place I can solve any problem, right any wrong, draft a poem to inspire any mind, or make a magnificent woman know that I am more than a first impression.
I light the lantern on my desk before pouring myself a glass of whisky. The small flame gives the oversized room a soft glow, but still leaves every corner as dark as the pitch of night outdoors. I prefer it this way—my desktop as the only focal point in the room, lit up like a beacon in the darkness. It keeps my attention anchored in one place, not on a thousand books lining my shelves, wanting desperately to be read.
While comfortably seated, I fidget with the papers in front of me, not really intending to do anything more than pretend I’m organizing them. My mind is too distracted, too agitated. The more I think about the events of the evening, the more I want to saddle up Magni, ride over to Ella Seymour’s home, and let her know exactly where thislowlyScot’splace is. I’ll have to give her credit; she severed a nerve with her parting cut. Just the idea that she looks at me as less than the man I am because I am from Scotland is enough to bring out some ancient berserker that still lingers in my blood. Scot or no Scot, I am a Stewart, descended from kings and queens, the heir to an earldom, two viscountcies, and a barony, as well as a captain in the Royal Navy. She may be Seymour’s daughter, but outrank me she does not.
My finger taps a steady rhythm on the glass while my thoughts go back to the conservatory. Cora, the serving maid I was with, was a pleasant surprise after a long journey at sea. Her choice of the garden as our rendezvous location was a bit of a surprise as well, and a pleasant one, still. But Ella’s unexpected appearance was something else entirely. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told her I could sense her presence. It was as if the air around me shifted, making the hair on my neck stand up. I pretended to not know she was there, only letting my eyes glance over without turning my head. The moon perfectly lit her face, its blue cast glowing against her pale skin, and I was momentarily stunned by her beauty. Never has my heart pounded so hard from simply looking at a woman. But it did when my eyes found her. Remembering it now has increased its tempo once again.
As I take a long sip of whisky, its rich peaty flavor making my mouth water, I continue to relive seeing—feeling—Ella as she watched me. I could sense her arousal; I could feel her fight against it and lose the battle. She knew she should leave. What we were doing wasn’t for her to see, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn away. She wanted to see it to completion, and so she did. From that alone, I would have never guessed she was a proper lady. Yet, when I stood before her, I understood completely as I watched her skin blush, her breath hitch, and her heartbeat’s heavy rhythm clearly visible in the shallow dip of her delicate throat. Ella Seymour is an extremely passionate and uncommonly sensual woman. Add to that, wit and tenacity, and it was easy to discern her decision to stay and watch. Though my gut tells me there was something else at play—something neither of us could rationally explain.
I get up to pace around my library, needing to move, to organize my thoughts, to decide upon my next move. One thing is for certain: I will not be following Ella’s request to never speak to her again. I may not be the kind of man she is accustomed to, but the more I think about her comments about my Scottish heritage, the more irritated I become. I know Edward Seymour personally, and he’s a good man. I cannot imagine he taught his daughter to have a sense of superiority over their neighbors in the north. Her mother—now that could be a different story. She is the daughter of the Duke of Brunswick, after all.
It doesn’t take long for the whisky to relax me and clear my head. Without so many thoughts clashing against one another like the infantry brigade during sword practice, I find I am more thoughtful, more objective to Ella’s position. In truth, it is easy to sympathize. She is young and naïve, the daughter of a duke, and has likely never been told the truth about carnal pleasure. She was clearly in shock at what she found in the garden, yet her innate curiosity wouldn’t let her leave. When she found herself enjoying what she witnessed, she was likely ashamed. Since I’m a presumptuous arse, I forced her to put up her defenses and give me a well-placed slap and a fantastically executed cut. As I rub the cheek that was the recipient of her aggression, I smile, remembering the fierce look in her crystal blue eyes, complemented by the straightness of her spine. Not only is she uncommonly beautiful and intriguingly sensual, she has an inherent fortitude that would intimidate half the crewmen on my ship.
My laugh echoes through the silence as I pick up my pen and prepare to write something for Ella. A letter, a poem, a story about an enchanting faerie casting her spell upon a sailor. I have decided my next move will be more traditional, perhaps even charming, and give her more insight into who I really am. Maybe then she will be open to a more appropriate introduction. Lady Ella Seymour has gained my attention in a way that is entirely unfamiliar to me, and I fear that I may not ever sleep well again until I can erase the look of contempt or perhaps even hatred in her eyes.
I tap off the excess ink onto the edge of the well, allowing my thoughts to go where they are most comfortable—to the place where letters become words and words become phrases. The contemplations blend, painting a vivid picture; colorful, and filled with emotion. Where the sound of the quill scratching the surface of the paper opens my mind to more words that construct the details and subtleties that make the finished piece poignant, provocative, maybe even persuasive.
The ink’s contrast on the paper is harsh as the controlled script of my hand starts at the most basic beginning.
Dear Lady Ella,