The MacLeod Pirate

by Lee, Caroline

  She nodded, a grim smile on her lips. “Let’s ride.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Getting into the keep shouldn’t have been easy, but Citrine had spent years training with the men and knew the guard at the postern gate often slept. She was prepared to bribe him—or even subdue him, if it turned out he was loyal to Dougal—but he was true to his reputation and was snoring heavily as they snuck past him.

  The kitchen entrance wasn’t even guarded, although they startled Cook—a fat old man with only one eye—when they slipped inside. He was sitting at the table, a mug of ale in one hand and a piece of brown bread slathered in butter in the other, despite it being well after midnight.

  Citrine halted so quickly, Banner’s hand came to rest on her hip to keep from crashing into her. His touch reminded her of his other touch, the way he’d made her feel hours ago in the clearing. Before William had shown up and ruined—

  Nay, better to not think of him and what they’d once shared. Better not to even think of Banner and the way he’d made her feel.

  Best to focus on the mission at hand, which was in danger of being stopped if Cook sounded the alarm. What was he doing awake at this hour anyhow? They’d purposefully waited until the wee hours of the morning, sharing watch duties and napping in the shadows of the outer wall.

  The older man shifted when he saw them and began to stand. But when Citrine stepped into the light of the candle, his one good eye widened in recognition. Slowly, he sank back down to the bench, switched his gaze to Banner—in his MacLeod plaid—and finally grunted in acceptance.

  Lifting his mug of ale, he nodded to both of them, then took a sip.

  Banner’s hand on her hip gave a little squeeze, then released. She took that as a signal to continue, so she returned Cook’s nod and exhaled softly, easing around the table.

  But just as they reached the great hall, he stopped her with a hand on her hip again. She froze, one foot already on the top stair, and leaned back against him. His chest was warm against her back, and his breath tickled her hair when he leaned his chin over her shoulder to whisper in her ear.

  “Men,” he breathed. “On the benches.”

  She peered into the darkness, acknowledging he probably had the right of it. Despite her unorthodox ways, she’d rarely had reason to be in the great hall this late. Mayhap those were men sleeping along the walls…

  After a long moment, she nodded to let him know she understood and eased her way into the space.

  Neither of them made a sound as they crept across the rushes for the stairway.

  Somewhere up there, God willing, her father slept safely. Was Dougal standing over him, a threat even in sleep? Now that Gregor was married, her father’s most faithful bodyguard spent more time away from his laird.

  Forcing down those thoughts, she made herself focus on the current situation. If they could find the last stone, she’d have something to give her father when she confronted him about the future and Dougal’s very real threat.

  As they crept up the stairs, her hands curled into fists, thinking about what William had said.

  Dougal not only wanted to be laird next, he was willing to kill Duncan Sinclair to hurry things along. And although the threat to her life didn’t bother her as much, Citrine was livid when she heard about William’s part in the plot to harm Pearl. Those bandits could’ve killed her little sister, and would’ve, had Gregor not been there to save her!

  Two good men died in that raid, and their deaths could be laid at William’s feet as well. He’d arranged the attack, and had Pearl been killed, would’ve been the one to return home—likely grief-stricken—with the news.

  In fact—as Citrine recalled it—he had returned before Pearl, and Dougal had been the one to tell Da all about William’s bravely gotten wounds and Pearl’s escape with Gregor.

  Damn him to hell!

  He was on his way to hell, Citrine was certain. The thought of what she’d once shared with him, the memory of his hands on her body, now made a sour taste in the back of her throat. Once, she’d thought him all she wanted in a man.

  How much of what they’d done together influenced his actions? Was it possible he’d allied with Dougal because the promised commander position would offer him the power he used to joke about when he’d been bedding her?

  He was ready to kill ye. He turned ye over to pirates!

  She’d not allow herself to dwell on his motives or actions. He’d been a coward and a traitor, and now he was dead at the hand of one of those pirates.

  And the Black Banner was a far better man than William had ever been.

  Exhaling, she felt the tension in her shoulders lessen as they reached the door to her chambers. She slipped inside and pulled Banner in after her, easing the door shut and pausing for sounds of pursuit.

  When she heard nothing, she allowed herself to breathe again…right up until the moment he pulled her against him.

  Her breasts were confined by the tunic, but she still felt her nipples tingle when they pressed against his chest. And when she hummed slightly in appreciation, she felt his member jump to awareness under his kilt and smiled in response.

  “I need my wits about me, lass, and yet ye manage to drag my mind to my cock so simply?”

  She chuckled, content in the knowledge no one would hear them. “Ye’re the one who grabbed me!”

  “I just wanted to ask ye where we were and why.”

  When she raised a brow, she knew he couldn’t see her in the darkness. But he chuckled, and she felt it in her chest.

  “Aright, fine. I also wanted to touch ye again.”

  So, she answered him honestly. “And I cannae wait for ye to touch me again. And I want to touch ye.”

  “But no’ now.” He sounded regretful as he pulled away, obviously taking a cue from her they no longer needed to whisper. “Is this where ye think the citrine is?”

  She’d spent almost every night of her life here. It was easy enough to navigate in the darkness, and she knew right where the flint was kept.

  “Aye,” she said as she struck the spark to the candle wick. “’Tis the lady’s chamber, but my mother never slept here. She died so long ago I hardly remember her, but she and Da had a love match, and she slept in the laird’s bed with him.”

  When she held up the lit candle, she was sure the glow showed him not only her satisfied smile, but the excitement she was feeling.

  “My sisters and I made this our room after we outgrew the nursery. And when we were small, we explored every inch of the place.”

  “And what did ye find?”

  Grabbing his hand, she tugged him toward the hearth. “This!” she said proudly as she shoved the candle toward the stone.

  He crouched down and bent his neck, and she knew the moment he realized what he was looking at because he let out a low whistle. “By His Wounds!”

  “Aye! See? My sisters and I even tried to chisel it out years ago, to see why it was special!”

  In the back of the hearth, among the stones lining the chimney, there was a large one with an ornate eye carved into it. Pearl had always thought it creepy, but Citrine had been fascinated by it.

  “Agata told us it was likely a remnant of the auld religion, a watchful spirit to protect us.”

  “Jewels in the hearthstone’s view,” he whispered thoughtfully.

  She sent him an excited smile. “Aye! ’Tis an eye carved into the hearthstone! What else could it mean? The Campbell sister who married my great-grandda would’ve stayed in this chamber!”

  He shifted his weight, reaching out to balance himself. “What did ye find when ye dug it out?”

  She shrugged, going down to her knees in the empty hearth and dribbling some wax on the stones to allow her to hold the candle in place. By pushing her upper body into the hearth, she could reach the carved eye, and when he grabbed her hips to steady them—or at least, that’s what she assumed he was doing—she could press her back against the upper stones and use both her hands to
reach for the carved eye.

  “Naught, see?” she grunted, trying to get her fingernails into the edges of the stone. “I chipped away the mortar—Nurse gave me a slap for getting my gown so dirty—but its…too…heavy.”

  Slumping, she braced her palm against the sooty wall and ducked her head to see Banner. “See? The stone is huge.”

  “Ye said the sapphire was found behind a stone in the Sutherland dungeon? Carved with the MacLeod crest?”

  “But it was much smaller.” Using her hand, she showed him the size Saffy had described. “Easier to pull.”

  “Let me in there to try.”

  “Nay, ’tis filthy—” She cut off her words with a startled squeak when he slapped her bottom.

  “Out of the way, woman! A little dirt never hurt a man!”

  Chuckling, she backed out and saw him pull a dirk from his boot.

  “For the mortar,” he explained.

  Nodding, she gestured for him to take her place and chuckled again at the noises he made as he squeezed himself into the hearth. As the sound of the blade chipping away at the mortar filled the chamber, she looked down at herself.

  Although it was difficult to tell against the wool, the soot of the hearth—although it hadn’t been used lately—was all over the front of her tunic. And Jock’s trews, never pleasant-smelling to begin with, were filthy now. When she tried to brush off the dirt, she only smeared on more with her sooty hands, and eventually gave up in defeat.

  With a grunt, Banner wrenched at the stone. Citrine’s gaze dropped to his arse, sticking out of the hearth, barely covered by the yellow-and-black plaid. How easy would it be to reach down, flip up his kilt, and touch him?

  In this position, she could stretch her hand between his legs and cup his bollocks. From the way he’d felt pressed against her earlier, she knew he wasn’t a small man. Would his bollocks feel heavy in her palms? Or would she end up distracted by his member?

  Likely, she told herself honestly, and the thought made her smile.

  The memory of what he’d done for her earlier, how he’d made her feel, warmed her from the inside. A fullness settled between her thighs, and she shifted to relieve the ache. It had been hours since he’d kissed her there, and if William hadn’t interrupted them, how would it have progressed?

  Citrine didn’t lie to herself; she wanted Banner. She wanted to bed him, to fuck him. But more than that…she wanted to make love to him, and the thought was perhaps the most disturbing of all.

  This was more than lust.

  Ye donae even ken his name.

  He had an adventurous spirit to match hers. He was honorable and a fine leader of men. He made her laugh and was kind. Knowing all that, did she have to know his name to want to make love?

  Ye’re betrothed to another.

  But not for long. She’d only agreed to the betrothal to search for the third jewel, and Banner had brought it to her. So, she’d be breaking the contract no matter how Da felt.

  No matter how Dougal felt.

  Mayhap one day, when this was all in the past and the Sinclairs’ future was secure, she’d have the courage to visit Lewes. Mayhap she’d meet her betrothed, the youngest son of the MacLeod, and share a laugh with him over what might’ve been.

  But if she did make the journey, she was honest enough with herself to admit it would be for the chance to have once last glimpse of the MacLeod pirate who was slowly stealing her heart.

  He’d offered to help her fulfill her mission, but she had no doubt he’d be returning home when it was done.

  But not before she convinced him to relinquish the pearl.

  He’d been willing to trade the sapphire and agate for a kiss. Would he be amenable to a trade again? Citrine’s sooty fingers trailed along the open neckline of her tunic, the touch—and thought—making her shiver with desire.

  She’d bed him for her own pleasure, but mayhap he’d think it only because of the trade?

  Her circular thoughts were interrupted when he made a noise of defeat and slapped the stone.

  “Apologies, Citrine,” he said as he wriggled backward from the hearth, blowing out a breath. “I cannae budge it, even without the mortar.”

  On his knees now, he reached for his kilt to clean the blade of his dirk, but she stopped him.

  “Nay!” She took the dagger from him and wiped it on her trews, offering him a lopsided smile. “I’m already filthy. Let’s keep yer plaid clean as long as possible.”

  He took the dirk back with a thankful nod. “Well, ’tis unlikely to stay clean long. I agree the coincidence of an eye carved into a hearthstone is too great. The last stone must be under there!” He blew out a breath. “Mayhap we need more tools? But then we risk alerting Dougal—”

  “Wait,” she said hoarsely, cutting him off with a hand on his forearm. “The eye…”

  It was his words which had made her look at the carving in a different way.

  “The hearthstone’s view,” she breathed, pointing to the eye. “Look what the eye is viewing.”

  Sucking in a breath, Banner dropped his weight forward, to his hands again, and bent closer. She joined him, and together they followed the line of sight of the carved eye.

  It was looking to the side of the hearth and down. She scrambled for the stones at the base, and sure enough…one was loose.

  “By His Wounds,” Banner whispered as she wiggled the stone from its careful placement.

  It popped out easily enough, but Citrine paused, her heart pounding. She exchanged a glance with him and loved the way his grin spoke of his excitement.

  Snatching up the candle, he edged it closer to the empty hole. “Is the citrine in there?”

  Bless him, he was as excited as she was!

  With a deep breath, she shoved her hand into the empty space beside the hearth, and her fingers closed around something wrapped in smooth leather.

  But when she pulled it out, it was far too large to be the citrine. Her hand shook as she unwrapped the mysterious object right there on the hearthstones of her childhood chamber.

  When the candlelight revealed their treasure, Banner whistled softly, and Citrine slowly straightened.

  The Sinclair brooch.

  It was bigger than her hand, the green malachite gleaming in the candlelight. Just like in the tapestry, there were four empty spaces for four large, flat-bottomed jewels. With shaking fingers, she touched each of the empty settings.

  “Agate, pearl, sapphire, and…”

  Banner’s hand covered hers. “Citrine. The last jewel wasnae in there?”

  With a sinking feeling, Citrine suddenly lunged for the empty hole, praying she’d find another smaller bundle containing the last stone.

  Nay.

  She slumped in defeat. “’Tisnae there.”

  His curse was muttered, but she knew it meant he was equally disappointed. Still, his tone was cheerful when he scooped up the brooch and offered it to her.

  “Well, ye still found the brooch. ’Tis no’ something yer father or Dougal is expecting. With three jewels and the brooch, ye can still offer it to the Sinclair.”

  She shook her head, the lump in her throat not allowing her to speak. He was right; finding the missing brooch—and right here in her own chambers!—was akin to a miracle. But she’d been so focused on finding the citrine, the knowledge she’d have to continue her quest was like a kick to the gut.

  Mayhap it was because it was her namesake.

  I am the last of the Sinclair Jewels. The last one at home, the last one to protect Da. And the missing stone.

  “Citrine,” he whispered, still holding the brooch out to her. “Did it no’ ever occur to ye that ye could be the next laird? Ye told me the legend says only the most skilled and bravest Sinclair warrior can return the jewels and restore the clan to power, aye?”

  She met his gaze in confusion, but he continued.

  “Well, ye’ve gathered all but one of the stones and now have the original brooch. Ye are the bravest and most s
killed warrior, Citrine,” he finished in a whisper.

  Nay, she wanted to protest! Of the Sinclair warriors, there were plenty who were braver and stronger and more skilled than she; she should know after training with them!

  But none besides Dougal have a blood claim as strong as yers.

  And she’d be damned before she allowed him to claim the lairdship. The man lacked honor, no matter his skill.

  “I’m a woman,” she finally managed to say.

  And Banner, bless him, merely shrugged. “’Tisnae so unbelievable that a strong, brave, skilled, and honorable woman could become laird of a clan.”

  Could she? Could she return the jewels to her father and demand the right to rule after him?

  Could she rule?

  Swallowing, she reached for the brooch. “I donae ken…”

  To her surprise, his hand closed over hers. Gently, he turned her palm up and placed the brooch in her hand, then covered it with his hand. “I do,” he said intently, staring into her eyes. “I ken ye can do it, Citrine Sinclair. Ye’re the clan’s Jewel, and will do it.”

  His faith was humbling.

  But then he smiled and broke the spell, pushing to his feet.

  “But for now, I’d say we need some food before we challenge Dougal for yer rightful place.”

  Her stomach chose that moment to remind her how long it’d been since their last meal—eaten yesterday at noon in the saddle. “And mayhap a change of clothes.” She grimaced down at herself, then around the empty chamber. “I almost regret having Pearl remove all the…”

  When she trailed off, he raised a brow at her, and she met his gaze with a smile.

  “I ken where we can go.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The cook was snoring in his little nook behind the kitchen chimney when they snuck back out of the keep, but his presence still made Rory nervous. The older man hadn’t reacted negatively when he’d recognized Citrine, but would anyone else?

  Who here was loyal to Dougal?

  Mayhap it was that thought which had him drawing his sword as they crept past the oblivious gatekeeper and ghosted along the wall. But Citrine didn’t object, not even when he paused to carefully scan the village for signs of life.