The MacLeod Pirate

by Lee, Caroline

  “Ye can look now,” came Banner’s low voice near her shoulder. As always, it sent shivers down her spine in the most wonderful way. “Most of the lads are clothed again.”

  “Most of them?”

  He chuckled. “Well, Bull and his men are still in the water, but ’tis cold enough their bollocks have likely climbed up inside them, so you’ll no’ see anything untoward when they emerge.”

  With a groan at his poor joke, she turned on him, thinking to tell him she’d seen enough bare arses to last a year, thank you very much.

  But the words got caught in her throat when she saw what he was holding.

  “’Tis the best we could do,” he said sheepishly with a shrug. “Jock’s trews should be long on ye, but with a bit of line as a belt, they’ll do. The shirt’s clean, at least.”

  Citrine’s hands shook a bit as she took the clothing from his arms. The trews were a bit long, but Jock—the wiry one—was taller than her. They didn’t smell the freshest, but they weren’t as bad as some of the other clothing the crew wore. The white shirt was indeed clean and looked large enough to have been Banner’s. And the tunic was made from the MacLeod tartan, but would fit her well.

  She lifted it in question.

  To her surprise, Banner shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Wee Ellis didnae mind sharing his best tunic with ye, if ye’ll grant him one of yer gowns in exchange.”

  Keeping a serious face, Citrine nodded. “I hope he feels beautiful in it.”

  Banner snorted and knocked his shoulder against hers as if they were compatriots. “’Tis for his mother, ye clot-heid!”

  She gave up trying to control her chuckles but told herself she was just laughing at the jest…not because being with him made her giddy.

  Right.

  After they got themselves under control, he led her to a crevice in the cliffs, then held up a yellow and black plaid to grant her some privacy while she changed. She hurried, her gaze intent on the blanket.

  He didn’t once try to peek.

  He really was an intriguing sort of pirate, wasn’t he?

  The shirt was far too large, but she rolled up the sleeves and liked the way it enveloped her. Had it not carried his scent, she might not feel that way, but just as waking up in his arms that morning had made her feel safe, so, too, did wrapping herself in his shirt. Besides, the smaller tunic would hold it—and her breasts—in place.

  Emerging, she held up the trews with one hand and gestured grandly with the other. “How do I look?

  Turning, he tossed the plaid over one shoulder and ran a gaze from her toes to her head. He placed a hand on his hips and pursed his lips, as if deep in thought.

  “Hmm.” He waved at her legs. “From the hips down, without shoes, ye look like a lad in sore need of a good meal, strong discipline, and a spot on a sea-going vessel.”

  She struggled to keep her grin under control. “And from the hips up?”

  His gaze snapped to hers, and she gasped at the heat she saw in his eyes. “Ye look like a lass who verra much is in need of a good kiss.”

  Oh.

  When he stepped toward her, she sucked in another fast breath, thinking he might make good on that promise. But he only reached for her waist, and the thin rope—which he called a line—Jock had provided. Banner made fast work of tying up the trews and showed her how to easily untie the knot.

  “When ye’re ready to re-tie it, try this one.” His fingers seemed to pass through each other as he deftly wove the line into a knot.

  She chuckled, realizing they were both staring at her waist. “I had nae idea there were so many knots. I’d like to learn more, but not on my trews.”

  Stepping back, he winked at her, his hands falling to his belt. “Fair enough. I’ll teach ye tomorrow, on the way to Reay.”

  She meant to ask how far away they were, but at that moment, he unhooked his belt, and his kilt fell off.

  A true lady probably would have squealed and turned around.

  Citrine didn’t, but in her defense, it was because he’d left her no time. One moment he was standing there in his black kilt, looking as magnificent as always, and the next…

  He was looking even more magnificent.

  Mayhap it was the way he was smirking. Mayhap it was the way his shoulders flexed when he propped one fist on his hip. Mayhap it was the way the muscles of his stomach seemed to form a sort of V which drew her gaze downward to…

  Oh.

  She knew what a cock was. She’d felt one before, aye, but the sight of this one made her knees weak and her stomach tighten.

  Christ and all of his apostles could’ve walked ashore right then, and she wouldn’t be able to drag her eyes away from his member nestled in a patch of dark brown hair, which was growing before her eyes.

  Oh my.

  “Whoops,” he quipped, not at all repentantly, as he turned around and grabbed for the plaid over his shoulder. He made short work of folding it properly and wrapping it around his waist, and Citrine was a little disappointed to see that fine arse disappearing under the MacLeod plaid.

  Was it her imagination, or was he tanned all over?

  Part of her was irritated at her inability to contain her lust. She was betrothed to this man’s kinsman, and even if she wasn’t, there was an important quest to fulfill! But another part of her scoffed at that reasoning, reminding her that the betrothal wasn’t of her choice, and why shouldn’t she enjoy the sight of a beautifully sculpted, male body?

  The arguments swirled in her head, so she was scowling when he turned back. “Ye did that on purpose,” she accused.

  And Banner, damn him, merely shrugged. “Aye, mayhap. I wanted to see if ye’d be as embarrassed as ye were earlier.”

  She glared at him. “Go find me my sword, Banner.”

  His laughter burst out of him and he gestured her back toward the camp and the ship. But he hadn’t ignored her threat. “Come along, Lady Sinclair. Ye can have a second go at me.”

  To her surprise, not only was Banner an expert swordsman, but a better-than-average teacher. It turned out that Bartholomew had rescued her sword—“I was going to give it to Char—to the Black Banner’s niece, but he says ye should have it back.”—and handed it to her with good grace.

  She felt so much more at ease with her sword in her hand and those ungainly skirts out of the way, despite being barefoot in the rocky sand.

  Banner was the one to initiate the sparring, dividing his men—the ones who weren’t working—into pairs. He paired off with her, and although she could tell he wasn’t putting his full strength into the blows, she appreciated that they were both working up a sweat.

  Although she refrained from showing him everything she knew, he taught her a few new moves, including a leap she’d never seen before. Not only was he patient with her, he was willing to repeat the same series of moves over and over again without complaining, until she felt confident she could remember everything.

  He was the one to call a halt to the sparring, raising his hand with a grin, then flashing his gaze around the other men. As she sheathed her sword and moved up beside him, he began calling out corrections to the pairs of men spread around the beach. She could see where he got his practice in teaching.

  He really was a leader.

  It was a shame he wasted his talents as a pirate. She could imagine him as a laird in a Highland keep, commanding respect and devotion. He’d lead his men into the future with a fair and balanced mind, as well as a firm grip on his sword. All he lacked was a strong woman by his side—

  Whoa there, lass! She shook her head. Stop daydreaming. Ye donae even ken if he’s married!

  Well, that was easy to remedy.

  “Ye’re verra good at this,” she blurted. “Yer wife must be proud.”

  He twisted toward her so quickly, he might’ve hurt his neck, but his expression was one of surprise.

  “I’m no’ married,” he said.

  “Ye’re no’?” She’d been willing to bed him, and was
only now considering this problem?

  He shook his head, then took a deep breath. “I am betrothed, but ’tis…complicated.”

  In many places, a betrothal was as good as a marriage. But the Blessed Virgin knew Citrine didn’t think of it that way. Mayhap Banner didn’t either.

  He stepped back a bit as he reached once more for his sword. “Would ye like another go?”

  She grinned. Her body might be urging her to grapple in bed with him, but she always enjoyed a good sparring.

  After, she would’ve liked to bathe in the surf, the way more than a few of Banner’s men were doing. But she contented herself with wading out and splashing water on her face and the nape of her neck. Someone had found her a leather tie for her hair, and she appreciated it.

  It turned out that one of Bartholomew’s hunting parties had been successful, and the older man roasted the hares which had been taken down by wee Ellis’s sling. Citrine sat cross-legged in the sand beside Banner and enjoyed the flavorful meat and jokes the men traded.

  She was in a remote place, surrounded by pirates. She should have been worried, but with her sword on her hip and Banner at her side, she wasn’t. It remained an odd realization.

  “Ye did well today, Citrine.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “Ye’re used to training?”

  “Aye. Da didnae approve at first, but I was young and wore him down. I try to train daily, but sometimes other duties—as the laird’s daughter—come first. William was my partner, usually.”

  He hummed as he chewed, then very carefully didn’t look at her when he nonchalantly asked, “William? He’s the coward who stood aside to let a fierce pirate take ye?”

  The meat turned ashy in her mouth, but she forced herself to swallow and lowered the bone she was pulling the meat from. “Aye,” she said in a quiet voice, staring at the fire. “I thought… We used to be friends. But over the last years, I suppose he thought it was too awkward to spar with me?” Shrugging, she tried to pretend naught was amiss. “Dougal assured my father he’d be enough to protect me on my journey, but I cannae forget the way William just stood there.”

  “He’s a coward.” Banner’s condemnation came fast and certain.

  She shrugged again. “I didnae think so, but ’tis the only explanation. But…he seemed almost amused that I was being kidnapped, and I didnae think he’d be so petty.”

  Thankfully, Banner didn’t ask more about the history between them, although she wasn’t sure why it should matter. Her past was her own business, and Banner wouldn’t care one way or the other. It wasn’t as if there was a future between them, not when they were each betrothed to other people.

  Instead, he asked an unexpected question. “Who is Dougal?”

  She glanced at him, at the way the fire reflected in his eyes and caused funny shadows across his cheeks when he smiled. He was genuinely interested in her life.

  Citrine wanted to tell him.

  She was used to being the strong one. The one her sisters relied on to have a plan and know how to implement it. Since her sisters’ marriages, she missed that sense of place she’d once had among them. And she missed talking to them about the problems which plagued them all.

  So, she took a deep breath and told Banner all about Dougal and how she’d come to trust him less in recent years. She told him about Da’s sickness and how she suspected Dougal of poisoning him but couldn’t prove it. She listened as Banner responded to her theories and offered some of his own.

  Then, as the evening wore on and they both took pulls from the wineskin, she told him of her sisters’ marriages and how lost she felt. In turn, he spoke of his own family, although he didn’t tell her any names. Except…

  The stars were out, and they were both lying on their backs, watching them twinkle above. The night had turned cold enough that she was pleased for his warmth beside her. He lay with one arm stacked behind his head, and somehow, her head had ended up on his shoulder.

  “Ye remind me of my niece, Charlotte,” he murmured. “She and her twin brother, Tavish, are my oldest brother’s youngest bairns. She’s as wild and free as the north wind. Tav says he wants to be the Black Banner when he grows up.”

  “Will ye let him?” Happy he was sharing his history with her, she rolled slightly so she was facing him, her cheek still pillowed on his shoulder. “When ye retire?”

  “Retire?” He hummed derisively, his eyes still focused on the stars. “At sea, I’m in control. On land, I’m merely another son—I mean…” He blew out a breath, and she saw his eyes dart in her direction. “I have no place except at sea. Here, I’m the Black Banner. My men will go through the fires of hell for me. How could I give that up?”

  Not for the first time, Citrine realized this man was no crofter, no peasant. Who was he? A younger son, he’d said. Surely not a nobleman—none of them would allow their sons to become pirates. But mayhap a merchant’s son? Someone who might expect to become a captain?

  But he wouldn’t tell her, and she wouldn’t ask.

  Here and now, they were just two people without pasts and without futures.

  Together.

  As if he understood, his arm tightened around her. “Go to sleep, Citrine. Ye’ll need all yer strength for the knots I promised to teach ye.”

  She was smiling when she gave into his suggestion and closed her eyes.

  The next morning, they broke their fast with surprisingly good porridge Bull made, then Banner lifted her into the birlinn and stripped out of his plaid once more. This time she kept her attention on the horizon, even when she knew he’d clamored, wet and bare-arsed, back aboard.

  She’d seen enough of his naked body yesterday to keep her company in her dreams.

  Still, when he stepped up beside her on the aft deck, chuckling as he re-belted his plaid, she felt her lips twitch.

  “Coward,” he murmured.

  “Tease,” she shot back, and then they were both chuckling.

  He was true to his word, teaching her how to tie various knots in between his other duties as they sailed eastward. To her surprise, the rest of his men joined in, calling out suggestions or tricks to make things easier. After knots, they moved on to jigs, and Auld Marcus pulled out his pipes for accompaniment.

  She couldn’t help comparing this voyage to the westward one with the merchant vessel and William. There, she’d been worried and bored. Now she had the third Sinclair jewel—or at least knew where it was—and was heading home to regroup. And she was having fun.

  Afternoon found her sitting in the shade of the ship’s side—Banner called it the gunwale—stitching the sail beside a talkative Bartholomew. She was teasing him about the size of his stitches, and the rest of the crew were taking turns making up verses to songs. The favorite seemed to be the one they’d sung the afternoon she was taken. So much had changed in such a short amount of time!

  When the refrain started again, she joined in.

  “One of brown, and one of white,

  And one of the deepest blue!

  One glows gold in the fire’s light,

  Jewels in the hearthstone’s view!”

  This time, however, it was Banner who indicated he’d be singing the next verse. He stood, legs spread, and bare feet planted on the deck, his shoulders tan in the sunshine and his smile near blinding.

  His men cheered when he lifted one hand from the rudder and waved, then began in his deep, clear voice,

  “She’s fierce and bold and lovely,

  With her sword she’ll make her stand.

  Her eyes flash gold in the sun’s pure light,

  She’s my lady, my firebrand!”

  All the verses evoked cheers, but this one seemed special. More than a few men leapt to their feet to pull off their tams and waved them in appreciation, even as they all—Citrine included—broke into the refrain.

  “One of brown, and one of white,

  And one of the deepest blue!

  One glows gold in the fire’s light—”

  With
a gasp, Citrine dropped her awl, unable to finish the refrain.

  One glows gold in the fire’s light.

  A firebrand, he’d called her, for the color of her eyes.

  She jumped to her feet in her excitement, her eyes finding Banner’s across the deck.

  He immediately stepped forward, keeping one hand on the rudder, concern on his face. “Lass? What is it?”

  The song died around them, and Citrine realized she was clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides, a tingling spreading throughout her body.

  This was it.

  She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she knew she—they—were close.

  “The song,” she whispered.

  When he frowned, she realized he hadn’t heard her. “The song,” she repeated. “The refrain.”

  “Marcus! Come take over!” He called the command, then met her in the middle of the aft deck. He took her hands. “What about the song, Citrine?”

  She pulled one hand out of his grip and laid her fingertip on her right cheek, pointing at her own eye. “One glows gold in the fire’s light.”

  By his little head shake, it was clear he didn’t understand, and she struggled to make him. “My sisters all have the same hair color, but our eyes are different hues. Agata’s are brown, Saffy’s are dark blue, and Pearl’s a blue so light, ye think it silver.”

  He still seemed confused when he nodded encouragingly. “Aye? ’Tis why yer mother named ye after the jewels in the—”

  When he sucked in a breath, she knew he understood, and nodded in excitement. “One of brown and one of white. That’s the agate and pearl.”

  “And one of deepest blue—the sapphire.”

  Smiling, they both said, “One glows gold in the fire’s light,” together, but he was the one to lift his hand to her cheek. “Citrine.”

  “Aye!” She nodded, careful not to dislodge his touch, which made her feel as if she had a partner in this. “The song—’tis a MacLeod song, aye?—is about the jewels! Mayhap the Campbell sister who traveled to the MacLeod clan was the one who made up the song in the first place?”

  “But why?” Banner dropped his hand and shook his head. “What would be the purpose?”