A fight? With her sitting here in this stupid gown?
She stood and turned, wrestling open the lid to the trunk on which she’d sat. Where is it? She rifled through gowns and linen chemises, increasingly frantic.
Ah, there ’tis!
She breathed a sigh of relief as her fingers closed around the hilt of her short sword. As an afterthought, she grabbed the bag containing the first two Sinclair jewels and slung it over her head and shoulder, settling the leather in the small of her back.
There. If the boat was attacked, the pirates would not get the Sinclairs’ most prized possessions.
Whirling, she was surprised how close the enemy ship had come. She bent her knees, settling into the ready position, and glanced at William. His sword was pointed at the deck as if he had no care for the oncoming threat and was smirking at her.
Smirking? Did he not think she could handle herself against a pirate attack?
She lifted her chin, determined to prove him wrong, and turned her attention back to the oncoming vessel.
Just in time to see the white of the sail obscured by a thick, black wool which was dropped in front.
The symbol of a pirate…but not just any pirate.
Citrine swallowed, not quite believing what she was seeing. She’d heard tales, aye, but no one above the age of seven truly believed them to be true. He was a myth, a legend of the North Sea…
Wasn’t he?
Around her, the sailors began to curse or pray, and she knew this wasn’t a myth or a legend.
The Black Banner was very real, and he was about to attack.
Chapter Four
Rory stood with one booted foot on the forward gunwale, his bared sword in his right hand and the knuckles of his left tight around the scabbard. He’d already donned the expensive, black kilt and now tensely watched the oncoming prize.
“Steady, lads,” he called back to his crew. “We want her where she can’t get away.”
A murmur of “Aye, Captain” came from various mouths, but most knew their roles well enough to not need reminding.
Lifting his nose, he sniffed the air, knowing they were on the right track. Coming from the north like this, they’d steal their quarry’s wind. The trick was to sail head-on, as if aiming for a collision, so that when Jock dropped the black sail and momentarily blocked their own sail, the birlinn would slow enough for both boats to survive.
He wanted their goods, not their lives.
He lifted his left hand, palm out, to indicate a slight course correction to Auld Marcus at the rudder. When he felt the vessel shift smoothly beneath his feet, Rory didn’t bother hiding his smile.
This was where he excelled. This was what made him who he was supposed to be. Here, on the sea, he knew exactly how to ensure things went his way. His family might think of him as the useless, youngest son, but not here.
He was the Black Banner.
Beside him, his second grunted quietly. “Ye think she’s carrying anything good?”
Squinting against the reflection of the sun off the water, Rory shook his head. “Just a merchant. But hopefully on his way back from market, aye?”
Bull—named for the breadth of his shoulders—chuckled. “I cannae survive another trip to market, Banner.”
Standing slightly behind Bull, Bartholomew clucked his tongue. “Ye made a piss-poor wool merchant, Bull. We’ll no’ ask ye to play that part again.”
As this crew had gotten better over the years, they’d quit taking goods from merchants, because they were too much of a challenge to sell off. Now they hoped for jewelry or coins, although Rory had a sense of decency; he never took enough of a merchant’s livelihood to force his children to starve, and rarely bothered to plunder the common sailors’ sea chests.
His men would return to the Western Isles with enough coin to last through the winter, but not enough to become lairds.
“No wool,” he agreed, his attention still on the approaching birlinn. “But I’m more interested in her stern. Who do ye think all that’s for?”
There was an awning stretched across the rear of the boat, and he could see someone sitting there. A someone…and what looked to be a few chests.
“Passengers?” grunted Bull.
“Passengers mean baggage,” Bartholomew speculated. “And baggage is much easier to dispose of.”
Bull elbowed the older man. “Ye can have any of the fine tunics we find.”
“I doubt that,” Bartholomew snorted. “Jock will fight me for them.”
“Ye’ll get yer chance, soon enough,” Rory cautioned, lifting his hand once more. “Ease ahead, Marcus!”
The ship was now in the perfect position.
“Are the lads ready?”
He waited for Bull to glance around. “Aye,” he grunted. “Oars are boated, swords are out. We wait yer command, Banner.”
“Excellent.”
Rory eyed the other vessel, then darted a glance up at his own white sail. Their friend Jock was perched on the cross spar, a dirk in his hand and a gleam in his eye. He nodded his readiness.
It was always this moment when Rory’s heart began to pound, that sense of anticipation washing through his veins. He knew his men felt it, too, and knew pulses were racing aboard their oncoming prize as well.
He judged their track and dropped his hand suddenly. “Come about, Marcus!” As the birlinn changed direction to come directly at the other boat, Rory dropped his foot to the deck, straightened, and called up to Jock, “Show them our banner!”
He could tell from the way the boat shuddered that Jock had no problem slicing through the lines which dropped the heavier black sail in front of the white one. It was done purely for theatrics, and was the reason behind his name.
It was their Black Banner.
With the bow of his birlinn pointed directly at the gunwales of the other boat, he lifted his sword. “Beware the black!”
Behind him, his men took up the cry: “Beware the black!”
When the two ships slammed together, he was the first over the side, but knew his men were behind him.
With a fierce sort of joy, he met the blades of the merchant ship’s sailors, fighting his way toward the captain. His men were under orders not to kill indiscriminately. The Black Banner’s reputation had never been bloodthirsty, and he wouldn’t be the first one to change that.
Luckily, these men weren’t warriors, and it showed. Of course, besides himself and Bartholomew, none of his own men had been trained as warriors either. But over their years on the Black Banner’s crew, they’d learned.
These men weren’t trained. A few cowered and prayed, while some met him fiercely with blades and cudgels. Rory knocked them all aside, leaping from one rower’s bench to the next, intent on his prize: the captain.
But when he reached midship and could see the captain, Rory’s aim changed. The captain was bellowing orders, his sword swinging madly even though none of the pirates were nearby. But it was the passenger who now held Rory’s attention.
It was a woman, but not just any woman: a lady. She wore an expensive looking green gown and stood behind a traveling trunk.
He’d been right; passengers meant luggage. But a lady passenger meant expensive luggage.
His lips were already pulling up as he changed his grip on the hilt of his sword and swung to clear a path toward her. This one prize might be enough to return to Lewes; those trunks would contain costly gowns his men would give as gifts to wives and sweethearts, and a lady like her would have some valuables secreted away.
The knowledge of this raid’s success had his blood pumping harder. “Beware the black!” he roared, and heard the cry being taken up behind him.
Wide-eyed, the woman backed further away. Her hands were by her sides, but her gaze never left him.
Bull was beside him now, bellowing like his namesake, reaching toward hapless sailors. The big man rarely used a blade, relying on his hands to do the necessary work. Rory didn’t mind, because knocked head
s were easier to recover from than sword wounds. It was tempting to let his friend deal with the captain…
Suddenly, there was only one more opponent between Rory and the woman; a young man who smiled mockingly and dropped his sword-point to the deck before stepping out of the way. He even made a little offering gesture to the lady, as if telling the pirate to have at her.
The lady—Rory was close enough now to see the sea air had torn off whatever covering she’d been wearing over her honey-gold hair—switched her gaze to the other man. “William!” she hissed angrily.
Not about to question the opportunity, Rory called to his second. “Bull, take the captain!” Rory twisted his body as he passed, making sure to keep the young man in sight in case the surrender was a ruse.
The man—William?—just grinned.
Rory held his sword in both hands, low in the ready position. Thank St. Ninian, because it meant he was able to raise it in time to block the next attack, which he absolutely hadn’t been expecting.
He was still facing William when the sound of a blade whistling through the air alerted him to the danger, and he was lifting his even as he crouched and twisted. He caught the descending blade on his own and gaped at the wielder.
Which almost cost him his life.
The lady’s sword was smaller than his, but she handled it with the skill and grace of someone who’d spent hours training. What she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed, and he was hard-pressed to match her attacks with his own blocks.
Of course, he’d figured this out by her third blow, and while he was certain he could’ve ended her attack, part of him didn’t want to.
By all the saints, she was stunning.
Her hair was caught up in braids wound around her head, but plenty of it had come loose. The dark green of her bliaut was embroidered with gold at the neckline, and only served to accentuate the creamy tan of her skin.
Who was she?
Mayhap it was the shock, or mayhap the intrigue, which kept Rory from finishing the fight. He allowed her to attack again and again, not bothering to push her back while he caught her blows on the forte of his sword. He thought he might be able to stand there all day watching the determined tilt of her mouth and the way her pale eyes darted across him, looking for a weakness.
It was Bull’s cry which wrenched Rory’s attention back to the present.
“Banner!” It wasn’t a call for help, but the signal the ship was theirs. “Black Banner!” Bull roared, and the rest of the pirate crew took up the cry.
And Rory knew, as much as he was enjoying the grace of the lady’s attack, he had to end it.
He took a step, then another, forcing her back toward her chests, her blade ready in front of her and her gaze wary.
Offering her a grim smile, Rory raised his blade for a final attack, then jumped forward.
As expected, she jerked to the side, intent on catching his sword in hers. But the gown she was wearing wasn’t made for sword battles, and her foot caught in the long skirt.
Her hip crashed into the trunk, and she rebounded toward him. He knocked her blade away as he reached out with his left hand and grabbed her around the middle, slamming her into his chest.
A moment of stillness caught them both, then her lips parted, and she sucked in a gasp.
His eyes fell to her mouth, and he was struck by the oddest thought. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a more perfect pair of lips. They were as tanned as the rest of her, proving she spent time out-of-doors, but the lower one was twice as plump as the upper.
They were begging to be tasted.
It wasn’t until she began to struggle that he realized how aroused he’d become in such a short amount of time. But rather than feel chagrined by his inability to keep control of his body, the thought sent another jolt of lust through him.
She’d felt his cock harden and had known what it meant.
Lifting his eyes to hers, he realized they weren’t just a light brown, as he’d assumed before, but a topaz color which flashed in the sunlight.
That flash of anger was the only warning he got.
His own lips were pulling up on one side into a wry grin when she yanked her sword arm toward him, obviously intent on skewering him. He had to drop his sword to grab her wrist, because he damn well wasn’t going to lose his hold on her any time soon.
She jerked again, but with one arm pinned between them and the other held tight in his grip, she couldn’t do much harm. Or so he thought.
When he felt her shift her weight to lift one leg, he knew her intention. And God’s Blood, why did that make him feel so amused? Instead of protecting his bollocks, he slid one foot forward—between her feet—and used it as leverage to lean forward. Trapped against him as she was, that put her off-balance, meaning she couldn’t knee him.
He’d won.
“Hello,” he said with a grin.
And she spat in his face.
Saints preserve him, but he started to laugh, which caused her to struggle harder, which made him more certain than ever: he wanted this woman.
Decision made, he loosened his hold on her, allowing her to pull away. But she only made it far enough that he could grip her other forearm in his right hand. Then it was a simple matter to pull them together and hold both of her wrists in one hand as he reached down to retrieve his sword.
Then, and only then, did he wipe her spittle from his cheek with a mocking nod.
The curse she spat at him had his brow raising, surprised a lady would know such language. Well, she’d proven to him yet again that she was not like the other ladies he’d known.
For a moment, staring down at his captive, yet still displaying defiance, he thought of his future wife. Would she be as beautiful as this hellcat? As spirited? She certainly wouldn’t know how to knee a man in the bollocks—not a gentle daughter of a powerful Highland laird.
The spike of disappointment caught him by surprise.
Disappointment? Why?
Because Rory MacLeod’s wife wouldn’t be anything like this creature, and this was the kind of woman who should stand beside the Black Banner.
“Why do ye stare, whoreson? Have ye naught better to do?”
Purposefully, he took his time responding, dragging his gaze over her languidly, lingering on her breasts. He was an honorable man, aye, but a man nonetheless, and allowed all his desire into his expression.
When she sucked in another quick breath, he knew he’d alarmed her again.
“Why would I do aught else, lass? I’ve won yer ship, so the cargo is mine to do with as I see fit.” He dropped his chin, making sure she saw the lecherous tilt of his lips. “All the cargo.”
“I am no’ cargo,” she hissed. “I am a paying passenger. Release me!”
He pretended to consider it, although his mind had been made up. Whoever she was, she intrigued him. If he could tame her, convince her he was worth a tumble, they could both make the other very happy indeed.
“Nay, I think no’. Ye’ll be coming with me.”
With that, he turned his back to her, intent on his men. “Jock, see to it that—”
When she slammed into him from behind, he almost bit his tongue off. Damnation!
He whirled again, lifting her wrists and forcing her up on her toes. “See here, wench, this will go better for ye if ye donae anger me.”
“I’m nae wench! Ye have nae right—”
“I’m a pirate. The Black Banner.” With her off-balance like this, it was easy to pull her forward, causing her to stumble into him. “Treacherous and honorless. I can do as I wish, and if ye do no’ cease yer struggles, I promise whatever ye’re about to experience can be made much worse.”
The color drained from her face, and in that moment, Rory felt like a true villain.
At least it shut her mouth.
He turned to Jock once more. “Ye ken what to take, lads. See to these chests as well.” He knocked one booted heel against her luggage, knowing the thump indicated they we
re nice and full.
Scanning the conquered birlinn, he was pleased to see there didn’t appear to be any dead, and his own men were moving about with minimal wounds. The captain was reluctantly turning over a pouch of coin to Bartholomew, the contents of which didn’t look particularly heavy. The captured sailors were stretched out on benches, being tended to by their mates, or glowering angrily at Bull, who was the most intimidating of the guards.
The exception was William, the young man who had stood aside to allow Rory at the lady. The way she’d hissed his name had seemed…disappointed?
Now, the man stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest, a faint grin on his lips. Why? Why was he pleased with the outcome of this battle?
Or mayhap he wasn’t. Mayhap he was just one of those men with an inappropriately wry sense of humor, who would smile at death.
Still, he seemed to be the one the lady knew, so Rory faced him directly.
“As for this passenger,” he said, tugging the woman up against him, “she seems to hold the most value on board this vessel. We’ll be taking her luggage…and her.”
And damnation, but the man’s smile grew.
“William!” The lady’s frantic call was accompanied by another attempt to jerk out of Rory’s hold. To go to him? Who was the young man to her?
“William, ye cannae do this!”
The man raised a brow in her direction.
“William!” she screamed. “Damn ye, and damn yer treachery. My father will ken—”
It was clear William wouldn’t be fighting for her.
Rory lifted her with a grunt. It meant she was slung across his shoulders, because he wasn’t going to loosen his hold on her wrists—the saints alone knew how she’d attack him then.
The position was awkward, but effective. All she could do was kick ineffectively and continue to curse William, albeit with less breath.
Her feet were bare.
He wasn’t sure why the realization affected him, but he hadn’t noticed it before. His wife wouldn’t go around without shoes, likely she’d demand the finest slippers money could buy. But this firebrand…her feet might be bare, but she was using them—and her tongue—as much as possible.
The MacLeod Pirate Page 4
