A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant Read online

  ‘We’re going for a row in that wee thing?’

  ‘A very short voyage, only as far as the Queen’s Dock. We could walk, but this will give you the view the King will have when he arrives. Come on, take my hand, and Hamish here will help you in.’

  Constance eyed the little craft askance. It seemed to her that the calm waters had suddenly become an Atlantic swell, for it was bobbing about alarmingly. There were only three steps visible. Clinging on to Grayson’s hand, she descended the first two gingerly, then reached for Hamish’s hand, feeling like a piece of washing strung out on a line. It was very, very slippery underfoot. She hadn’t realised what a complete landlubber she was. Girding her loins, she took a leap into the boat, sending it rocking wildly and toppling into the seaman’s arms. He staggered, but held the pair of them upright.

  ‘I think you could say you’re well and truly landed,’ he said in a broad Glaswegian accent. ‘Sit down there, hen, and don’t move.’

  Mortified, Constance dropped on to the wooden plank that served for a seat in the rear of the boat, watching as Grayson cast off, bringing the rope with him as he leapt agilely into the dinghy and Hamish picked up the oars.

  ‘Move over a bit,’ he said, slipping his arm around her. ‘Don’t worry, if we do capsize I’ll save you.’

  ‘You can swim, then?’

  ‘Oh, like a fish.’ He pulled her closer to him on the narrow bench. ‘There now, you can relax and enjoy the view.’

  ‘All very well for you to say. This is the first time I’ve ever been out on the water in my life.’

  ‘You’re joking? You’ve never even been out on a loch to catch trout?’

  She shuddered involuntarily. ‘We’re not going fishing, are we?’

  ‘I thought you liked fish. You enjoyed that stewed carp at Oman’s.’

  ‘On my plate, cooked, I am very fond of fish. Alive, flapping about with their scales and their tails and fins and those gill things they breathe through...’ Constance shuddered again, screwing up her face. ‘They terrify me. Please don’t laugh, I know it’s silly but I can’t help it.’

  ‘It’s not silly. I’ll let you into a secret. I’m feart of moths. It’s the fluttering they make, the way they come at you in the dark, that horrible wee brush of their wings on your face. I can’t stand it. God’s honest truth, when one of them gets into the house, I have to fetch Shona to catch it.’

  Constance giggled. ‘I know you’re exaggerating just to make me feel better.’

  ‘We’re not going fishing, I promise. Look back at the docks, and imagine what the crowds will be like when George arrives. There will be tartan hanging from every building, and heather strewn over all the cobbles. A tartan carpet for His Majesty to walk on, do you reckon? And the dockers, they’re bound to turn out in kilts.’

  ‘Mr Scott’s pamphlet suggests a blue coat, white waistcoat and white trousers for everyday wear,’ Constance said.

  ‘I thought you were teasing me, when you said there was a dress code.’

  ‘For the price of a shilling, you can read his epistle for yourself, in a day or two, when it’s published.’

  ‘But you’ve clearly already read it. How did you manage that? Do you have contacts you haven’t told me about?’

  Only one, Constance thought, cursing her slip. ‘I’ve a friend who runs a bookshop,’ she said, which was the truth of it. ‘The world of printing and publishing is a small one. He had an early copy.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear you’re not entirely friendless after all.’

  ‘Pearl has an account with him. I think I told you that she reads a great deal.’ She wasn’t used to prevaricating. ‘Mr Scott also recommends a shallow-brimmed hat decorated with a cockade in the form of a saltire. He assures his readers that the cost is not prohibitive.’

  Grayson, to her relief, either didn’t notice her discomfort, or chose to ignore it. ‘Mr Scott would have us all decked out like sailors. Does he have similar advice for the ladies?’

  ‘I’m not sure about everyday wear, but if they have the dubious honour of attending the Drawing Room at Holyrood, they are required to wear a gown with a train at least four yards long, and a headdress with a minimum of nine ostrich feathers. The world’s ostrich population must be quaking in its boots.’

  ‘They’ll just put their head in the sand as usual. To be serious for a minute though, Walter Scott can’t possibly think that people will follow his bidding. He’s not designing costumes for the cast of a play.’

  ‘Actually, I think that’s exactly how he sees it.’ Constance clutched the side of the boat as Hamish began to manoeuvre them towards a low jetty.

  ‘We’ll disembark here. It gets steep and a bit precarious further on, especially if you’re wearing a dress.’ Grayson took the rope, mooring the dinghy while Hamish held it steady before helping Constance out.

  ‘Enjoy your sail,’ the seaman called as he pushed off.

  ‘What sail?’ Constance asked. ‘Haven’t we just been on a sail?’

  ‘That was just to whet your appetite.’

  Grayson took her arm, steering her away from the edge of the jetty towards the main docks. The basin was filled with vessels jostling for space as a swarm of people loaded and unloaded the boats. Ships, she mentally corrected herself. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Inchcolm Island.’

  ‘Island? But how...’

  ‘In this little beauty. PS Carrick Castle. I’ve arranged for it to drop us off and pick us up later.’

  Constance stared at the huge ship, dumbstruck. ‘It’s a paddle steamer.’

  ‘She’s not one of mine, I regret to say. She was built at another yard a couple of years ago, but she has a twin beam engine designed by Napier, who does some work for us, so she’s not dissimilar to some we’ve built. What do you think?’

  The Carrick Castle was the oddest shape, a sleek, wooden-hulled boat with two enormous paddles, one on either side, that completely spoiled her lines, giving her an ungainly appearance. A tall red-painted funnel looked similarly out of place with its twin white hoops, sitting just in front of the paddle housing, as if it were an afterthought. Smoke was already belching from it. ‘She looks enormous,’ Constance said, quite overawed. ‘Are we really going for a sail in her?’

  ‘If we are, we’d best get aboard sharpish. I had a bit of a problem securing a berth for her at such short notice. That’s why I was late this morning, and she needs to set sail in the next fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You mean you arranged this just for me?’

  ‘You told me you’d always wanted a trip on a paddle steamer, remember? Your wish is my command.’

  ‘How on earth did you manage it?’

  ‘I called in a few favours. I had hoped to arrange it for your birthday, but Sunday is a busy day for day trips, we’re more likely to have the island to ourselves today.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. It’s wonderful, Grayson. I’m speechless. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome.’ He saluted the skipper who was standing on the deck. ‘Come on then, let’s get aboard.’

  The gangplank dropped at a steep angle from the jetty down on to the ship’s deck. Constance followed Grayson, clutching at the railings, taking careful sidesteps, trying not to look at the terrifying drop. The wooden struts under her feet were shifting. The ropes holding the ship were straining and creaking, as if the ship was eager to be away. The final step on to the deck was an immense relief, but she had barely taken it before someone started pulling the gangplank away. A huge blast from the ship’s horn made her jump. The paddles began to turn, water sluicing from their slatted housing, and they were off.

  ‘She’s a working boat, designed to carry cargo rather than passengers,’ Grayson said, helping Constance to the wooden bench which was bolted down in the centre of the aft deck. ‘Luckily it’s flat calm, for th
ere are no safety rails. If the weather turns, there are cabins below the main deck fore and aft of the engine, but they’re miserable, pokey wee places, and stink of engine oil, so we’ll stay up here if you don’t mind a bit of spray from the paddles.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it.’ Constance, clutching her shawl, was wide-eyed with wonder. ‘I’m truly overwhelmed. You must have called in any number of favours.’

  And dug deep in his pocket, but it was worth it just to see her face. As the steamer headed out into the Firth of Forth, Grayson found the blanket he’d stowed behind the seat, and tucked it around her knees. The sun was shining in a rare, true summer’s sky. On the port side, they were sailing past the island of Cramond, the low tide exposing the causeway that joined it to the mainland. On the starboard side, the Fife coastline lay low and lush green in the distance. And beside him, Constance, her bonnet hanging from its ribbons around her neck, her hair blowing around her face, her expression rapt. A feeling of complete and utter well-being washed over him. He could sit here like this for ever.

  ‘I don’t want this ever to end,’ Constance said, echoing his thoughts, smiling at him. ‘I didn’t realise paddle steamers travelled so fast.’

  ‘Would you like to see the engine house?’

  ‘I don’t want to move right now. I feel so free. As if I’ve left everything behind me, and there’s only you and me and the sea.’ She laughed, lifting her face up to the sky. ‘I know this is the Firth of Forth and not an ocean, and I know that there are at least two other men on this boat—ship!—but it feels as if we’re alone.’

  ‘There’s the captain up there in the wheelhouse along with his mate, and in the engine room there will be a stoker and an engineer.’ Grayson took her hand under the blanket. ‘But I agree, it does feel as if we’re alone.’

  Her fingers twined in his. ‘Are the paddle steamers that go doon the watter like this one? Where do they sail from, is there a dock in Glasgow?’

  ‘The Broomielaw, almost right in the centre of the city. There are any number of steamers, some this size, others much bigger. A few have their decks covered over to make a proper saloon with windows so you can take in the view in comfort, but most have open decks like this, and cover below which you’d only use if the weather was inclement. Apart from anything else, it can reek down there.’

  ‘Rrrrreeek.’ Constance leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘How many people do they carry?’

  ‘The likes of the Carrick Castle here will comfortably take about fifty, but there are others that will squash a few hundred on board. In the summer, I’ve seen men leap the gap before the gangplank’s even down. On a busy day at the Broomielaw, they’ll berth two and three deep too.’

  ‘And is it always busy, even in the winter?’

  ‘Not with day trippers, but it’s becoming the done thing among those who can afford it, to move their family to a house by the sea, and for the husband to spend his week in the city and get a ferry home for the weekend. Piers are being built all along the coast now, so they can be dropped off close to home.’

  ‘Are you thinking of building yourself a pier, and buying a seaside home?’

  ‘I like the notion of living by the sea, but it’s not very practical. I’ve my business to look to, and my children in school.’

  ‘Your daughter still attends school at sixteen?’

  ‘She’s a bright lassie, and she loves her books. They’ll only keep her for another year though, and then...’

  And then, he knew perfectly well, he’d have a battle with the Murrays on his hands, and another sooner rather than later, when Neil finished school. He was dreading it. He shouldn’t have to fight to keep his children, not after all he’d done for them, and it stuck in his craw that it should even come to that. ‘It’s far too nice a day to be dwelling on my problems. Look, we’re approaching the island, do you think you’re up to taking in the view from the observation deck?’

  Which was a grand name for a set of wooden stairs climbing to the narrow platform between the paddles, Grayson thought, helping Constance across the slippery deck. He clambered up the stairs behind her, trying not to be distracted by her shapely rear, and almost succeeded. The rhythmic thumping of the paddles and the vibration of the steamer’s engine made the little deck shudder. He circled Constance’s waist, pulling her up against him. ‘You can feel the heart of the ship under your feet here.’ He had to shout to make himself heard.

  She clutched the flimsy railing, leaning back against him. ‘It’s so noisy.’ Turning round briefly, he saw she was smiling broadly. ‘I absolutely love it.’

  * * *

  The steamer could not berth at the island, for there was no proper jetty. Instead, a dinghy was lowered off the side of the ship, and as she was helped aboard, Constance understood the real reason for the little practice trip earlier. She sat at the back—astern, Grayson laughingly informed her, as he handed her his coat to shelter her from the sea breeze and took the oars. Her ears were still thrumming from the sound of the paddle steamer’s engine. Her hair was lank with the spray from the paddles, her skin tight with the sunshine and the salty breeze, but she had never felt so well.

  Grayson, she wasn’t surprised to note, rowed with a casual ease. She snuggled into his coat. It was still warm from his body, the wool slightly damp from the spray. His legs were braced at an angle on one of the wooden struts on the bottom of the boat. He was wearing boots today, and breeches rather than trousers. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. His arms were tanned. The sinuous muscles rippled as he rowed. She watched, entranced, lulled into a pleasant state of dreamlike arousal by the rhythmic movement of his arms, the oars skimming at an angle under the water, the regular clunk of them in the rowlocks, the tension in his braced legs, the tilting of his torso towards her, away, towards her and then away again. His hands would be warm from the oars if they rested on her skin. He had rough hands, calloused and scarred, but they were always scrubbed clean, the nails trimmed very short. Their kisses would taste of salt. He would smell of brine and sunshine and sweat.

  The bump of the boat on a wave made Constance jump in her seat. They were making a sharp turn towards a little beach. Grayson seemed to be concentrating on the manoeuvre. Her flushed face could easily be attributed to the weather. She tugged at the ribbon holding her bonnet around her neck, taking off her gloves to undo the knot, putting them inside her bonnet when she finally managed to remove it.

  Grayson brought the boat into the shallows, jumping out to pull it up on to the beach, heedless of the effect of the salt on his boots. She stood up, but before she could begin the complicated business of clambering out of the boat, he scooped her up, lifting her clear, then letting her slide slowly down on to the sand, keeping his arms around her waist. ‘Do you have any notion at all of what you do to me, when you look at me like that?’

  ‘I was watching you row.’ Her heart was racing. Warm sand, salt, and Grayson, that’s what she could smell, and it was playing havoc with her insides. ‘I was studying your technique.’

  He smoothed a long strand of her hair from her cheek, letting his hand rest under her hair, warm on her nape. ‘You’re a terrible liar, do you know that?’

  ‘I am.’ She reached up to curl her arm around his neck. ‘I do know that.’ It was the way he looked at her, more than anything, that aroused her. As if he couldn’t believe she was really there. And the way he always listened, no matter how trivial her remark, the way he gave her all his attention. ‘I was thinking that you would taste of salt, if you kissed me.’

  ‘And I was thinking that I had never in my life wanted to kiss anyone as much as I want to kiss you right now.’

  Their lips met. He did taste of salt, and of tooth powder. Their kisses made her head spin. Last night, there had been urgency in their kisses, fire. Today was different. She didn’t know how. She didn’t care. She wanted their kisses to last for ever. She pressed
herself against him, wanting every part of them to touch, to connect. She could feel his chest rising and falling, his breath fast like hers. His tongue stroked her bottom lip, drawing a moan from her. She pulled his face closer, her hand clutching at the tight muscles of his rear, her mouth opening, shaping to his. She felt as if she was melting. Her body was thrumming. She could feel the rigid length of his arousal pressed against her, making her insides twist and tighten with desire, but all she wanted for now was their kisses, more kisses, never-ending kisses. Kissing to make up for all the time they had lost, would never have. This was all she wanted. He was all she wanted.

  She knew he felt the same. She knew it from the way he was murmuring her name over and over between kisses, as if he was afraid she’d disappear. She knew it from the way his hand always sought hers, pressing the clasped pair against his heart. Finally they drew apart, gazing into each other’s eyes, smiling. Aroused, but not wanting to be sated, not yet.

  ‘We’ve the whole day ahead of us,’ Grayson said, as they watched the paddle steamer sail off, ‘and we’ve not even left the beach and explored the island yet.’ But still he didn’t let her go. ‘The way you look at me, no one looks at me like that. You seem to have taken up residence inside my head. I can’t stop thinking about you, do you know that?’

  ‘Yes, because I feel the same. Now show me this secret island you’ve brought me to. I live less than ten miles from here and didn’t even know it existed.’

  He laughed softly. ‘Then prepare to be amazed.’

  Chapter Eight

  Inchcolm was a long, low island roughly in the shape of an elongated ‘S’ located less than a mile from the Fife coastline. ‘The name comes from the Gaelic,’ Grayson said. ‘It means Columba’s island, I’m told. That’s Braefoot Bay directly over there, Aberdour is just up the coast a bit. This stretch of water is known as Mortimer’s Deep.’