Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “Yer uncle?” he said carefully. “So ye are the Captain’s niece, then?”

  “For my sins,” she replied. Squatting down to be closer to the flames she held out her hands to the welcome warmth, sneaking a glance at him, taking in the deep-set eyes and the strong jaw-line, the straight nose and the sensuous lips. She found herself breathing a little quicker.

  “Yer uncle, he’ll have a fondness for the drink, by the look of him?” said Thorvald. She laughed sadly.

  “Ye could say that.”

  “Aye, I could. And that’ll be why ye are so sure of yerself up here. No chance of him or any of his compatriots climbing all those stairs tonight just tae get a look at me. Not at this time. So, they’ve left ye tae care for me, while they drink themselves silly down there, is that it?”

  “That’s about it.” She could not help but smile. This engaging, attractive young man in the space of a few minutes, put her entirely at her ease. His voice was mellow and smooth to her ears, and his face... she had to restrain herself from gazing too frankly at him, fearing that her quick-beating heart would show itself. She felt both relaxed and fearful, wary and excited, all at the same time. It was a feeling never experienced before. Usually, she responded to most situations with her fighter’s confidence, or with the deference required by her uncle’s jibes. Armed with neither, she felt unsure how to respond.

  “Thorvald,” she said without thinking, trying the name out in her mouth to see how it felt.

  “Anne,” he responded. They looked at one another across the small gap.

  He hauled himself up with a groan, sitting back on his haunches and regarded her for a long moment, before picking up another piece of wood to feed into the fire.

  “Anne, let me say something tae ye plainly. I do not think ye can be very happy here, with yer drunken uncle and yer sour beer, and being given the worst duties all the time. Am I right?”

  She felt a sudden coldness. He had pushed too hard, too fast, and he immediately knew it.

  “My uncle raised me,” she said harshly, repeating the story she had told herself, over and over again. “My uncle raised me when no one else would have me. He gave me a home, and training, education of sorts and food in my belly. If not for my uncle, I would have starved. I owe him the respect that a father earns.”

  Thorvald recognised the phrase and the concept.

  “But that’s not what I asked, though, is it?” he pressed. “I asked, are ye happy?”

  “Happy...”

  Thorvald watched her repeat the word, speaking it aloud, then mouthing it silently a few times as she stared into the flickering flames. She was beautiful by the firelight. Gorgeous. Those high cheekbones, her full lips, and her eyes softened in the dimness, removed from the usual hardness of her fighter’s face. She mouthed the word as if she had never spoken it before, never thought of it about herself. With shocking suddenness, his heart turned over, and pity for the girl flooded him.

  “I’ve never really thought about it,” she said. “No, I suppose I’m not happy, not really. My uncle is not kind to me, but he’s all I’ve got.”

  Her own words shocked her, but when he reached out and took her hand, it shook her even more. She snatched her hand back as if from a flame.

  “I’ve brought ye a blanket,” she said hurriedly, “but I’ll bring ye another when I get the chance. Firewood, too, once I get the chance tae split some.”

  She turned and left, stumbling over her feet in her hurry to get away.

  The lock clicked as she turned the key, and he heard her footsteps echoing rapidly as she fled.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Here,” said Benedict, jabbing a finger at the map on the table before them. “This is where ye need tae go.”

  Iain, Alice, and John stood around the big table in a book-lined study in the Bishop’s Palace at Kirkwall. The Bishop-in-waiting was dressed in his regular clothes of black linen, having put aside his clerical garb for the moment. A silver cross at his throat and a gold ring with an esoteric symbol were his only badges of office.

  As Francis Harcus had suggested, the libraries at the Bishop’s Palace were crammed with scrolls, books, and maps, and it had not taken Benedict long to find the chart he was looking for.

  “Sea charts are often of dubious quality,” he rifled through a rack of rolled and cracking charts, “but we have the best of them here, tae be sure.”

  Now, he pointed to a spot to the western end of the long, rugged coastline of the northern mainland, where a stylised symbol representing a castle had been etched in black ink.

  “This must be it,” he said with certainty. “Borve Castle, not far from the little hamlet of Farr. It’s the only place isolated enough but still nearby, and with a good enough harbour to service the pirates. It’s under the control of the Duke of Sutherland, who is not good at holding security in the lands.”

  “But what about these castles here?” Iain, pointed to the eastern extremity of the coastline, in the other direction to Borve castle. Benedict shook his head.

  “No, though some of them are ruinous, and might harbour bandits, that whole stretch of coastline is under the dominion of the Earl of Caithness, who maintains a strong presence all through his lands. They would not shelter there. No, Borve castle is your best bet. In fact, now I think of it, there were some reports... let me see...”

  He busied himself at a shelf for a moment, then came back clutching a paper.

  “Yes, here it is. This report was brought to us late last year – a fishing boat ranging further afield than usual reported seeing lights at Borve, and a ship tied up in the anchorage. We suspected smugglers at the time, but now...”

  “Very well,” said Iain. “We will follow your lead. We will go tae Borve Castle.”

  Captain Morton of the Endeavour, the Grants’ ship, had been given orders that morning to prepare for departure, and all was ready as they walked down the docks once again. Benedict had granted them the loan of several maps and charts, and the captain had spent some time working out his course to Borve castle, reckoning the tides and the distances with as much care as could be managed in a short space of time. A squadron of determined-looking men, including Thorvald’s foster-father, Tom Fisher, had come along with them from Skylness, determined to help in regaining the lad, who they fiercely considered one of their own. Iain, against his better judgement, had asked Benedict if he wished Father Hallam to come with them too, to represent the Church’s interest – feeling he owed Benedict that much, considering the aid he had rendered to them. Also – though he did not say it – he did not trust the nervous young priest, and he would have liked to keep an eye on him. But Benedict’s face had clouded over at the suggestion.

  “The truth is, Mr Grant, that Father Hallam cannot be found. After ye rode for Skylness last night I spoke with him about Church matters in this very room, then we prayed together, and he said he was going tae bed. But this morning, when I sent a lad tae find him, he was not in his room, and a closer look suggests he has taken travelling clothes – his riding boots and good cloak are gone. I do not doubt that he has been called away on some errand, and will return in due course, but it is rather troubling. He is a handy young man and very capable. I would have liked tae send him with you. But I fear the tide will not wait, and speed, now is your greatest ally.”

  They stood upon the docks, and the afternoon sun was riding high in the sky, striking glittering highlights from the restless waves. Iain, Alice, and John turned to face the wind and looked out over the sea, toward the next stage in their adventure.

  They were about to step foot on the gangway to the great ship when John nudged Alice and whispered quietly in her ear, “Look!”

  She did so, and to her surprise, saw a figure who could only be Sir Magnus Bain, further down the docks. He seemed to be engaged in a heated conversation with another man, who was gesturing to the sky and sea, shaking his head vigorously. As they watched, Sir Magnus drew from his cloak a large, heavy-looking canva
s bag, and gave it to the man. The man looked from the bag to Sir Magnus, weighed it in his hands, then shrugged, slipping the bag inside his own cloak. Gesturing with an inclination of his head, the gigantic Sir Magnus lumbered after him.

  The Grants slowly walked up and boarded their own ship, but Alice kept her eyes on Sir Magnus’ distinctive form as he moved through the crowd like a stone through water. She saw him follow the man up to a small boat with only one sail. He boarded, hauling a heavy pack down after him, seating himself down in the bows with his arms crossed, staring out to sea. The other man began to prepare the boat for departure.

  “What do ye think that means?” asked John into the silence.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” said Iain. “That man is trouble, that’s easy for anyone tae see.”

  “He’s certainly going somewhere,” said Alice. “I wonder if he has heard something we have not?”

  The Endeavour was a big ship, and it took significantly longer to manoeuvre out of the harbour than the single-sailed vessel did. As the Endeavour made its majestic, careful way out to sea, Alice watched with an uneasy feeling as the small sail of Sir Magnus’s boat made its swift passage out of the harbour, around the headland, and out of sight.

  * * *

  Anne Gow swung the axe up and around with practised ease, bringing it down with well-aimed force onto the block of wood in front of her. The log split with a satisfying crunch, the two halves dropping down on either side of the block. She groaned, leaning down and lifted one of the halves back up onto the block. It was raining outside the little lean-to where she had been working steadily for longer than needed. Her back was stiff, but her mind was calmer. Splitting wood did that for her.

  Having chopped the last chunk into usable pieces, she drove the axe into the chopping block and turned away, gathering up the dry, split logs into a canvas carry sack. There were more than would fit in the bag, she had been cutting wood for hours, doing much more than needed for Thorvald’s fire up in the tower. She had needed time to think. Or perhaps she had needed time to not think.

  Turning, she hefted the sack over her shoulder and was about to set off when the white flash of a sail caught her eye. Built on the edge of a dramatic cliff, her uncle’s castle hideout commanded impressive views of the sea to the north. The little grassy sward sloped away rapidly to a steep drop, where far below the sea boomed and murmured against the cliff wall. The rain was falling steadily, but the wind was mild – up here at least. Anne watched the little boat tossing on the water, with its white sail belling out into the wind, making its way across the white-tipped waves.

  She could help him escape.

  The thought pushed its way irresistibly into the quiet space that opened in her mind as she looked out at the extensive view. All morning, and all of the previous night, that thought had been leaning on her, trying to find a way in. Resolutely she had pushed it away, denied it, but it kept coming back.

  She could free him.

  “I’ve cut so much firewood,” she chuckled, glancing around at the heaped piles of white logs. “I will start by bringing some up tae the main hall and some tae the kitchen. That will keep me in old Peter’s good graces at least.”

  Anne hoisted the canvas bag onto her shoulder. The bottom tore, spilling logs out across the grass. One caught her painfully on the back of her ankle, and she dropped the limp, empty sack, swearing loudly. There were more sacks in the store cupboard inside.

  She could help him escape.

  Walking from the bright winter sun of the yard into the cold damp interior of the castle, the thought of freeing Thorvald from his captivity picked at her like a bored man picking at a scab, knowing it will be painful if he succeeds, but unable to stop.

  “What would it take?”

  She had not meant to ask the question out loud; the sound of her own voice reverberating dully in the corridor surprised her. At the bottom of the stairwell she hauled open the storeroom door.

  It would not take much to get him free. Only she had the key to his room. The pirates were lax about security – everyone knew that, though nobody acknowledged it. On ship, Neil and Juarez kept tight discipline, but on land, all began to slip from drink, boredom, and the illusion of security that this isolated castle brought. Together, these were a fatal combination. Supplies could be found easily from the kitchen – she knew old Peter’s schedule well enough, and it wouldn’t take much to get in there and fill a knapsack. Some bread and cheese and dried fruit, a couple of skins of water, a few blankets. It would be easy.

  She smiled to herself as she headed back toward the courtyard, a fresh sack in her hand.

  A riot of new feelings tangled together like snarled yarn in her belly. Excitement, fear – terror, even – and something else. Something she could not quite put her finger on. A hot feeling that started in her belly and reached upward to make her heart race, or downward to make her knees weak...

  Thorvald, with his kind, slightly mocking voice, his knowing smile, and thoughtful eyes. And that kiss…

  “Because I can,” she had said, or something like that. What had possessed her? She knew it was not uncommon for men to exploit female prisoners taken in raids, to steal kisses – or more – but to kiss him like that... why had she done it? Not just ‘because she could’, she now admitted to herself. She had done it because she wanted to, because he was there, and because she was feeling strong and powerful after the battle, and... she breathed deeply, pausing for a moment on the landing, and handling the next thought carefully as if it might cut her. For the first time in years, here was a man who was not a threat that she needed to defend herself from. He had tried to fight her once, that was true before they had known each other, but she had demonstrated her competence, and he had not tried her again. She could feel his respect for her.

  Anne regretted her hurried departure from his room when he had dared to ask “Are you happy?” It was not a question she had ever thought to ask of herself, but since then, she had not been able to stop asking it. No, she was not happy. She was miserable, afraid, and always on her guard. She was a killer and a member of a crew of vicious pirates who had a reputation as the blood-thirstiest men in the north. If they were ever caught, she would be hanged along with the rest of them, and yet she got nothing for her trouble, only abuse from her uncle and resentment from most of her crewmates. Happiness. Was it something one could hope for? Expect, even? That kiss... for a moment, seeing the surprise on his face... that had made her happy.

  She was packing wood into the fresh sack when a question bubbled to the surface of her consciousness like a dead fish in a calm sea. She hated it. It was an ugly, spikey, uncomfortable thought, a question she did not want to answer. It was the avoidance of this question which had stopped her from the idea of helping Thorvald escape in the first place.

  The question was not ‘why would she help him escape’, the question was: why not?

  Chapter Twelve

  When Anne was a little girl of ten or twelve years, her uncle had been her whole world. Her father had died so long ago that she barely remembered him – just a vague impression of a tall and handsome man, light-haired and smiling. Anne had no idea who he might have been, or even how he had died. Of her mother, she knew nothing.

  Anne Gow had been a tough girl then, the darling of the rough and unruly crew. She had been raised on the ship, lived there, climbing the rigging like a monkey before she could even speak properly. She knew every nook and cranny of the great boat, and when they raided a town or gave chase to another ship, little Anne would sit up in the rigging and watch, clinging to a spar, or high up on the stern-deck, clinging to the rail with white knuckles as men fought and died on the decks below her.

  That had been a different ship, of course. It was called the Siren and was larger, faster, and much more beautiful than the Caithness Seal. It had been home.

  When she was ten, uncle Neil had taught her how to defend herself with a knife, and by the time she was thirteen, h
e had graduated her to a short sword. Back in those days, Neil had been a very different man, straight-backed and bright-eyed, his face unscarred, his walk steady and confident. He had taken drink, to be sure, but it had not such a hold over him back then. He could drink spirits like water, drinking more than any man on board and seeming only to mellow slightly, where the other men would be puking overboard or lying senseless under the table.

  Once, in a hot and sunny bay off a tiny deserted island in the Caribbean Sea, they had met another pirate ship. Sam One-Eye, the captain, was a great rival of Neil’s, but instead of fighting they held a drinking competition, matching each other glass for glass before climbing the rigging of their respective ships, once up, once back down, then back to the table for more spirits. After three hours, Sam One-Eye tumbled from his rigging, landing headfirst on the deck and breaking his neck. Neil Gow-Sinclair had watched mildly from his own ship as Sam One-Eye’s crew descended into chaos, splitting into groups and fighting each other in support of their preferred candidates for captain. Eventually, some fool had spilt an oil lamp belowdecks, and as the Siren caught the warm breeze and sailed placidly away, Neil winked at his fourteen-year-old niece and took his place beside her on the stern-deck, an arm around her shoulders, watching as the ship of his greatest rival went down in a column of greasy black smoke and bright red flame.