Cold Rain

H eavy clouds obscured the weak sun on the morning of the proposed sail. A stiff breeze off the water filled the schooner's sails. The rain began five minutes after the crew cast off. Ash and Thorne whined about the weather but Rowan didn't mind it. In November of 1813, he'd fought in the Battle of the Nivelle. The icy winds sweeping down from the Pyrenees had chilled him to the bone. He and his men had trudged through two-foot high snowdrifts stained red with blood. He could tolerate being doused by a south of England downpour.

He'd never seen London from the vantage point of the Thames before, nor had he realized how quickly the grimy city gave way to cultivated fields and open countryside.

Rowan began to relax when he realized he was thoroughly enjoying the experience. The crew worked together like a well-oiled machine. Every man knew his role and it was smooth sailing all the way to the mouth of the Medway. In the far distance, ominous storm clouds hung over the North Sea. He should be nervous but, inexplicably, the black waters beckoned.

He attempted to wheedle a concession out of Niven King. "I say, old chap, I don't suppose we could go a little way up the coast?"

"Not today, my lord," the Scot replied, having given the idea no consideration at all. "We need this schooner back in port. The captain has orders to turn the vessel around and return to the docks. She's scheduled for a voyage to Cork. Besides, ye've an appointment wi' the lovely Lady Daisy."

Rowan narrowed his eyes. Was the cheeky sod toying with him? Who but Niven King could have issued those orders? And was there a hint of sarcasm in the way he said lovely ? "Of course," he replied politely. Experience had taught him to keep his powder dry. This wasn't the time for an offensive. He was grateful Niven had arranged this outing. "Very well."

As they sailed back to the docks, he let his mind wander over what he and Lady Daisy might converse about. He was woefully out of practice at wooing. In fact, at the age of twenty-four, he'd never really been interested in paying court to a woman before. That pitiful truth was something he definitely wouldn't disclose.

It didn't come as a surprise that the younger Withenshawe siblings moaned about the weather. However, Niven had to reluctantly give Lord Rowan his due. The spoiled lordling had actually been disappointed they weren't about to brave the squall out in the North Sea. Could it be the man was a born sailor? That would augur well for the future of his father's shipping company. The day to day operation of such an enterprise could be tedious, but if Rowan had the sea in his blood…

Niven wasn't sure how long it would be before the Three Trees rejoined their regiment and sailed for Europe. However, as military men, they were best suited to organizing the ferrying of soldiers and weaponry across the Channel. That would give Niven more time to concentrate on the main business and on shipping and marketing Uachdaran whisky.

He hoped Rowan hadn't detected the sarcasm in his voice when he mentioned Daisy Hawkins. She'd toyed with him, but might behave differently with a man of equal rank. Just to be on the safe side, he should offer Rowan the loan of a kilt.

That humorous thought momentarily banished the discomfort of the cold rain pelting his face. Then he scowled, angry with himself. In the Highlands, he'd never given much thought to the weather. Good, bad or downright cruel, there was naught a man could do about it. Living in London had made him soft.

"Thank God," Ash Halstead muttered as the schooner bumped the London dock. "I'm wet and frozen to the bone."

Thorne rubbed his ice-cold hands together. "We should thank the Almighty that King refused to take us out into the open sea."

"You're right. What was Rowan thinking?"

"I"m not sure. He seems to have enjoyed this wretched outing."

"Not I. I'm soaked to the skin."

Thorne shivered. "I'll be glad to set foot on terra firma again."

"Let's hope the weather improves by the time we sail to Europe."

Thorne gritted his teeth. "I suppose you had to mention that."

Ash regretted his comment. His younger brother hated the military life. Indeed, Ash wasn't too keen on it himself. But Rowan loved the camaraderie and insisted it was every Englishman's duty to fight Napoleon. Naturally, Ash and Thorne had followed his lead and joined the 66 th Berkshire Regiment. They'd been in the rearguard at Nivelle and hadn't seen much action. Ash had a sinking feeling this next clash of mighty armies would be different. At least they'd be fighting in summer weather. The prospect did nothing to chase away the chill.

Willow had never known Rowan talk with his mouth full but, as he gobbled up the cream cheese and cress sandwiches prepared for luncheon, he apparently couldn't stop talking about the brief voyage up the Thames. Hardly had he polished off the sandwiches when the buttered scones disappeared in short order.

On the other hand, Ash and Thorne nibbled at the food and their usual endorsement of everything Rowan said was notably absent. Their only contribution to the discussion was to complain about the rain.

Niven had opted to stay at the dockyard. She wondered what he made of Rowan's new enthusiasm.

Garbed in his dressing gown, their father smiled indulgently at every word that poured forth from his son and heir and seemingly wasn't bothered by the atrocious manners.

"Niven suggests I take over the planning for the war effort," Rowan finally explained after gulping down his fifth cup of tea. "Just until I rejoin the regiment, of course. I can't wait to tell Lady Daisy about my adventure."

Itching to inform him he had a leaf of cress plastered to his front tooth, Willow decided against it. Hopefully, one of his brothers would inform him of the fact before he left to call on the Duke of Ramsay's sister.