He had been true to his word. He treated her like one of his own and raised her up. He taught her how to fight. He taught her how to run a ship, and more importantly, how to run a crew. He set her up so she could be a legitimate merchant - or a pirate. Aileas found the pirate life vastly more fun. So when Logan decided to hang it up and spend his remaining years with his family, he handed control of his ship - formerly the Iron Dragon - to her. Some of his crew, also getting on in years, had decided to leave the ship, opting to spend their lives - and the gold they’d taken over the years - on land.
The first thing Aileas had done was rename the ship, then had new sails made more befitting her style. After that, she’d found a crew. Some of the men aboard the Selkie were men she’d grown up with who opted to stay after Logan’s retirement. They knew and respected her already. But the newer crew members she took aboard, she’d had to break in since a female captain wasn’t something they were accustomed to. Some of them had to be taught a little respect.
But for the last few years, things had been smooth. Her crew had become her family. Her ship. Her hope. They were prosperous and feared. Aileas liked that. Although her life wasn’t what she had expected, her birthright stolen from her in a hail of blood and flame, she found that she couldn’t complain. She had a good life.
As the Selkie glided forward, Aileas stepped to the side railing and doffed her tricorn cap, and gave a bow to the men floating in the water.
“When those ships arrive to haul your miserable carcasses out of the water,” she called to them in French. “Please tell them La Renarde de la Mer sends her regards!”
* * *
They made berth in the harbor of Dernier Espoir - Last Hope - the city on the French shoreline they had called home since the days when Logan first took the pirate’s colors. It was a rough and tumble town filled with thieves and murderers, but it was also a place where the French authorities dare not step, which made it ideal for people like Aileas and her crew.
It had been home to Aileas since she was a girl, and so she was afforded a level of respect born of familiarity and the fact that Logan was essentially her da around there. Not many men challenged her, and when they did, she had always been more than happy to put them down. Her skill with a blade - and her willingness to use it - had earned her even more respect, acclaim… and fear.
The crew pulled their oars in and let the longboat glide to the dock that jutted out from the shore. The men jumped up and tied it off and helped her up the ladder. Once they were all standing on the dock, she gave them a smile.
“Ye’ve done good work, lads,” she said. “Go and enjoy some of thae spoils, eh?”
The men cheered and clapped her on the shoulder as they headed for the taverns and brothels in town - of which, there were plenty of both. Aileas made her way to the inn where she laid her head down when they were ashore, the King’s Bollocks. Though the name was crude, the Bollocks had the softest beds in town, not to mention the best wine and food.
She stepped through the door and took a seat in the corner of the common room near the hearth. There was a chill in the air outside, and Aileas just wanted to relax by a fire and have a mug of wine. Aileas unbuckled her belt, took her sword off her hip, set it down on the table, and then settled into her seat. She caught the eyes of a few of the men seated in the common room. Strangers. No doubt wondering what a little slip of a girl like her was doing carrying a blade.
“Is there a problem here, eh?” she called.
The men quickly turned back to their drinks, and a stony silence descended over the common room. Slowly, the muted buzz of conversation picked up, but it was subdued, and everybody seemed to be making a pointed effort to avoid her gaze - and thus, avoid her wrath.
“Well, you’re in a foul mood tonight, aren’t you?”
Aileas smiled at the sound of her voice and turned her head to find Giselle gliding over to her table. She set the mug of warm, mulled wine down in front of her, and a pitcher of it down in the center of the table, and took a seat across from her. Aileas took hold of the mug, cupping it in both hands to leach the warmth from it, letting out a sigh of relief.
“I am glad to see you home safely,” Giselle said.
“I’m glad to be home safely,” Aileas replied.
“Was it dangerous?”
Aileas shrugged. “It had its moments.”
Even though she’d been speaking French for most of her life now, it still felt wrong in Aileas’ mouth. It was uncomfortable. Like a cloak that didn’t quite fit properly. It was true that she had spent most of her years in France, but she knew she would never be considered French herself. Still, there were a lot of worse places to while away the time.
Giselle smiled at her, clearly wanting Aileas to regale her with tales of her adventures on the sea. She was the inn owner’s daughter, and they had become fast friends shortly after Aileas had taken up residence in the Bollocks. She knew Giselle harbored fantasies of becoming a pirate and sailing the open ocean, and she looked at Aileas as something of a hero and a role model, something Aileas had no desire to be.
Still, the two of them were thick as thieves. They had become great friends over the years, and in a world where Aileas trusted few people, the short, slim, curvy brunette was one of the very few. So she obliged the girl and told her of their voyage… the fights, and the dangers they had faced. She ended it with the story of her leaving the French captain in the water.
When she was done speaking, she took a long swallow of the mulled wine, which had cooled considerably as she’d been telling her tale. It was still good, though. Giselle’s face was bright, her smile wide, and she was quietly clapping her hands, thrilled with Aileas’ tale.
They talked a while longer before exhaustion finally started catching up to Aileas. As she got to her feet, Giselle’s eyes widened.
“Oh no, I almost forgot,” the girl said.
“Forgot what?”
Giselle held up a finger, then dashed behind the counter. She came back a few moments later, holding a sealed piece of parchment. Aileas took it and looked at the seal for a moment, not recognizing the sigil embedded in the red wax.
“Who left this?” Aileas asked.
Giselle shrugged. “I do not know. It was left here for you a couple of days ago,” she said. “The man who left it said to make sure it got into your hands the moment you returned. Said it was important.”
“But you did not recognize him?”
She shook her head. “His French was terrible. I had to get Alexandre to translate for me,” she said. “And he had a funny accent. It sounds like yours when you are not speaking French.”
That piece of information sent a bolt of lightning straight through Aileas’ body. A Scotsman here in France, leaving messages for her. She knew it could only be one person, since aside from Logan - whom Giselle would have known - there was only one person who knew where to find her.
“Dand,” she whispered.
Giselle looked at her curiously as she broke the seal on the letter. The missive was six words. Just six words. But those six words turned her entire world upside down.
It is time. Come home. ~ Dand
“Home,” she whispered to herself. “I’m goin’ home.”
Chapter Two
Sowkirk, Scotland
The sky was overcast, and there was a chill as thick and heavy as the salt in the air. Luke stood on the far end of the dock, looking out to the sea. He loved the ocean. It held such beauty and mystery for him.
Luke knew he got his love of the sea from his father, who’d been a fisherman. Luke had only seen twelve summers when a storm blew through while his father was at sea, and the mighty ocean had claimed him. Still, despite the tragedy that had marked his life, he held a strong love for the water.
He looked around the harbor, silently naming the different vessels berthed there. Luke thought that he’d like to board one of those ships and head out one day, riding the ocean, bound for distant lands. Most of them
were familiar to him, merchants who regularly made berth in the harbor of Sowkirk.
One ship he had not seen before caught his eye. It was a large, tri-masted carrack that was moored on the outside ring, standing alone. From where he was standing, he could see the silhouettes of a few of the ship’s crewmen bustling about on the deck. What caught his eye were the sails. Though furled, he could see they were red and black. It was distinctive.
He stood at the end of the dock for a little while longer, just breathing the salty scent of the ocean and watching the unfamiliar carrack. Then with a smile, he turned and made his way to the harbor master’s office and leaned against the doorway, folding his arms over his chest, and looked in at the man.
Clovis Brun was perhaps the angriest man Luke had ever known. He was older, with a head full of stark white hair, a dark, craggy face, stooped shoulders, an ample belly, and a tongue sharper than any blade Luke currently had on his body. Clovis’s green eyes sparkled with intelligence and keen wit. He was never opposed to making somebody look plum foolish when the mood struck him.
“Aye? What dae ye want then, boy?” the old man snapped. “And wipe that bleedin’ smile off yer face. Tis nothin’ tae be smilin’ about ‘round here.”
Luke smiled wider. Despite his surliness, he liked old Clovis.
“I came tae ask about thae carrack with the red and black sails,” he said. “I’ve never seen it here before.”
“What business is it of yers then, eh?”
“Must we have this conversation every time I stop in, Clovis?” Luke replied. “Ye ken tis thae task me lord Fin has set to me. He wants me to keep abreast of thae ships and the crew who come intae Sowkirk.”
Clovis scoffed. “Yer lord wants ye out of his hair,” he cackled. “Tis why he sends ye down here. Ye dae ken that, eh?”
It was a thought Luke had more than a few times. He desperately wanted to be part of Fin’s personal guard - the Black Wolves, as they were called. He wanted to be a warrior. He wanted the respect and esteem that came with being one of a noble’s personal guard. Perhaps more than a life on the sea, he wanted to be known as a great warrior and friend to his lord.
But he had not yet been given a chance. Although he spent his mornings training in the warrior’s field, the rest of his days were spent at the harbor in Sowkirk, watching the ships sail in and out, ostensibly keeping an eye out for enemies. But it had not taken him long to figure out that it was a way for Baron Bagbie to get Luke out of his hair.
“Mebbe if ye dinnae pester him so much, he might nae send ye away,” Clovis continued, cackling the whole time.
“I daenae pester him,” Luke snapped.
“Lad, I have been here longer than ye’ve been alive,” he stated. “Believe me when I say that the only lads who get tasked with dock duty are thae ones who pester thae baron.”
Luke frowned, feeling his mood darken. Deep down, he knew Clovis spoke the truth. And that didn’t improve his current disposition any. But Luke had always believed in putting himself out there. Believed that to achieve his goals, he had to make others remember his name. But listening to Clovis confirm the thoughts that floated through the back of his own mind made him see that, perhaps, he should have found another way to make Baron Bagbie recall his name.
The good thing was, he still had time to correct his course. He was young, and he was hungry. He would do what was necessary to stand out from the other young men who vied for spots within the baron’s elite guard. That meant he needed to redouble his training. He would need to make a name for himself on the training court, not by constantly peppering the baron with questions.
The decision made, and his course set, Luke nodded to himself. He would make the baron stand up and take notice of him. He was already skilled with a blade in his hand, and he made a silent vow that before long, he would be the best in all of Cherrythorn Manor. There would be no way the baron could deny him for long.
“Are ye goin’ tae tell me about the carrack or not?” Luke pressed.
“Tis called thae Red Selkie; what else dae ye want to ken?”
“Where’s it from? Where is thae crew?”
“I daenae ken where thae crew is. A tavern or a brothel, I’d suspect. Seems tae be thae first thing sailors dae,” he grumped. “Nor can I say I ken where they’re from. I did hear ‘em speakin’ in French though. Oh, and they’re led by a lass.”
Luke pondered it a moment, the name seeming to be strangely out of place. A French vessel named after a Scottish legend? He thought it over for a moment and wondered if he was making more of things than they actually warranted. Still, it struck him as odd and out of place. But perhaps not as odd and out of place as a female captain. That was an oddity worth exploring.
“A female captain? Yer sure?”
“Aye,’ he said. “That sorta thing tends tae stand out.”
“And they spoke French?”
“Did I stutter, lad? Bleedin’ hell, I can see why thae baron sends ye away from him,” Clovis spat. “Now, unless ye got any more stupid questions, I got work I need tae be doin’, so run along now.”
Luke lingered in the doorway for a moment, glaring at the man. The one thing he disliked more than anything was being condescended to the way Clovis had just done. He did not like being spoken to as if he were a child. Technically, he was a soldier. He was one of the baron’s fighting men who would be called upon in a time of war. His aim was higher, and just because he had not attained his goal just yet, did not mean others had the right to sneer at him.
“Ye may not think much of me now, old man,” Luke growled. “But I look forward tae thae day I make ye eat yer bleedin’ words.”
Clovis looked at him for a long moment, and rather than a scowl, or a sharp word, Luke saw something different in his face. It was almost something akin to respect, though not quite.
“I look forward tae thae day tae, lad,” he said, sincerity in his voice. But then a wicked grin curled the corners of his lips upward. “Until then, get yer bleedin’ arse outta me office.”
A smile crossed Luke’s face, and he laughed as he left the harbor master’s office. As he walked along the docks, his thoughts continued to return to the carrack. Clovis had heard them speaking French, which was interesting. It piqued his curiosity more than a little. He did not see many French merchants harboring at Sowkirk.
The town only had half a dozen taverns or so. If they had indeed gone to a tavern as Clovis had suggested, they should not be hard to find. He wanted to learn what they were up to and whether they posed any threat to his baron. He thought if they did, Baron Bagbie would be well pleased to be forewarned.
Luke set off into the town, looking for this mysterious crew who was led by a woman.
* * * * *
It took him three taverns before he found who he was looking for. The red and black tricorn hat that matched the carrack’s sails sitting on the table gave her away. As unobtrusively as he could, Luke walked in and took a seat near the table where she sat and cast a furtive glance at her. One of the tavern girls brought him over a clay mug filled with mead, and he took a deep drink of it, trying to look natural.
With hair the color of deep rust that was pulled back into a braid that hung over her shoulder, soft hazel eyes, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and skin darkened by the sun, Luke thought the captain was striking. She was small and petite, though she had curves that he enjoyed looking at. In black woolen breeches, black boots that went up to the knee, a red tunic, and a black leather jerkin over that, she was a sight. She looked delicate, almost like a little girl dressed up in a fighting man’s gear. And yet, despite that appearance, Luke could see the hardness in her. The toughness she carried herself with.
Beneath her tunic, he could see the sway and ripple of corded muscles. There was a scar, just a thin white line, that ran from her chin and along her jawline. As he looked closer, he could see her knuckles and hands also bore a thin white web of scars he’d commonly seen on the hands of
warriors. She had obviously seen her share of fighting.
The woman was young but had a practiced, casual air about her. And yet, at the same time, there was a tension in her frame as well. Her body seemed to crackle with the promise of violence. The woman had a whispered threat of it in her easy but deft movements. It was the same way he’d seen hardened warriors move. The way the baron’s Black Wolves moved.
Luke had no trouble believing the woman’s small, almost delicate frame, and that soft, comely face had led many a man to underestimate her. He also had no trouble believing those who did were no longer of this world. It was in her eyes. Even from where he sat, he could see the hardness in them. They were eyes that had obviously seen much in what Luke guessed was not a very long life thus far.
Every Highland Sin: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Page 2
