The narrowing of Gates’s eyes promised a biting retort. Arthur cleared his throat and quickly interjected, “What is it like? I have never been.”
The man’s gaze remained locked on Scrubs. “Too cold in the north, too hot in the south, and filled with arrogant boors.” He slapped his book shut. “What say you to that, boy?”
Scrubs pulled out his ever-present rag and went to work on the floor. “What ought I say, sir? Other than if you think so poorly of the place, it seems odd you would still want to claim it as an off-shoot of Merry Ol’ England.”
Rage flickered through the elder man’s eyes but was quickly tamped down as he stood. “As I said, arrogant boors, the lot of them. Do excuse me, Sir Arthur. I have a matter to discuss with the captain.”
“Until later, then.” Arthur did his best to hold down his grin until the man had left. “I do believe that was the longest sentence I have ever heard you deliver, Scrubs.”
The lad barely glanced up.
Arthur took another sip and considered letting the silence reign…but he had spent too many hours with only quiet Gates for company. “Well, I am glad to finally know your opinion on something.”
There was a hitch in Scrubs’s movements, but no other response.
Arthur sighed. “I am looking forward to seeing America. I have heard about the beauty of the wilds.”
“Is that why you are traveling there? To see the wilds?”
“Nay.” His voice came out more quietly than he had intended, so he cleared his throat. “My betrothed is missing and her life is in danger. We think her father sent her to Maryland. It is our hope to find her before his murderer does.”
Now Scrubs’s motions ceased, and the boy looked up at him with that ageless gaze of his. “Forgive me, sir. I did not realize your purpose was so grave.”
“How could you have?” He forced a smile and swirled the bitter drink around in his cup. “I imagine you have seen much of the world already. That is quite a blessing.”
Only when the boy’s eyes snapped back to blank did Arthur realize compassion had entered them. He attacked the floor again. “Blessing, aye. I am certain my mother and sisters thought just that when their sole provider disappeared.”
Sympathy tugged, but what was the use in indulging it? The boy had been a fisherman, as easily snatched away by a storm as a captain seeking a fuller crew. Still… “How far is your home from where we are going in Maryland?”
Another pause in the scrubbing. “Why?”
Why indeed? Why should Arthur worry with one boy separated from his family when so many the world over suffered far worse plights? Scrubs, at least, earned a living aboard Yorrick’s vessel, which he could send home to his mother—assuming any pound notes made it through the post. He sighed. “Gates has requested that Yorrick remain at the open port in Annapolis until our business is concluded. Perhaps that would afford you time enough to visit them.”
Scrubs snorted. “We could be there a year, sir, and the captain would still never let me out of his sight.”
“I would take responsibility for you.” The offer slipped out before Arthur could stop his lips. Wisdom called him a fool, but some other part of him whispered that this young man was one of integrity. “Assuming, of course, you gave me your word that you would return to the Falcon.”
Not meeting his gaze, Scrubs grabbed his rag, stood, and hefted the tray. “I appreciate the offer, Sir Arthur. And I respect the kind of man who would make it.” He strode to the door, paused with a hand on the latch, and turned his stoic face toward Arthur. “Which is why I couldn’t give you that word.”
Arthur grunted as the boy slipped out. No doubt that was for the best. Taking charge of Scrubs would only distract him from his real purpose anyway. Finding Gwyneth must remain his foremost, his only priority.
And with Gates’s help, surely he could manage it.
For a long moment Gwyneth stared at the painted face of her father. She gazed into his canvas eyes and willed life into his ever-still lips. “Oh, Papa. What are you trying to tell me?” Were she not aware that some of the paint was still tacky—even a week had been insufficient for it to dry in this damp air—she would have reached out and touched the familiar shoulder.
No comfort was to be found there, though. No wisdom from his mouth or affection from his eyes.
She had never once had to question that he loved her, but as she stared at the face she knew so well, she wondered how well she had really known her sire. And why, when she needed it most, he had left her no words to guide her.