Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  “You hale?” she asked her brother as she cast a quick glance over him.

  “Yes. You?”

  “For now.”

  Little time was left to talk as the battle waged on. The fishermen were not adept enough to hold off the attacking pirates. She watched as the men she had known her entire life dropped one after another, felled like saplings rather than the solid tree trunks she had thought them to be. Caragh’s eyes swept the cave until she noticed the man who was clearly the captain of the raiders. His sun-bleached blond hair was pulled back at his nape, and his white shirt billowed as his sword cut through the air while he fought Derrell. If he had not been attacking men she considered family, she would have admired the grace with which he moved. The fluidity of his motions looked more like a well-rehearsed dance than a fight to the death. His hair, nearly white, reminded her of the stories of the raiding Norsemen her Scottish mother regaled her with when she was a child. Snapping back to the present, Caragh made a decision that she prayed would save the men who were still standing.

  “Enough!” she barked. “We surrender. Take your plunder but leave the men. They are naught more than fishermen and villagers.”

  She did her best to deepen her voice, but the blond man turned toward her with an eyebrow cocked. She was certain he had figured out she was a woman. She held her breath as he shoved Derrell to the ground and pointed the tip of his sword at the young man’s throat.

  “Do not move from this spot or it shall be your final act,” the pirate captain growled. He spun to look at Caragh. “And who are you to be giving orders, lad?”

  Caragh almost sighed when the man acknowledged her as a male, but she took note of the burr in his accent. It sounded like a deeper version of her mother’s Scottish brogue.

  “I am naught but the voice of reason. If you are an experienced marauder, then you know villagers and fishermen do little more than guard what’s brought ashore. We have nothing to do with how it gets here.”

  “But you have everything to do with how it’s distributed once it lands upon your shores.”

  “And if it is gone because you’ve taken it, then we have nothing left of value to you.”

  “I would think your lives are of value,” the pirate pointed out.

  “Then you can be generous and leave us with them.”

  “I’m not known for my generosity.”

  “There is a first time for everything.”

  The captain barked a laugh that had several of his men chuckling. He stepped toward Caragh, and she once again prayed, this time that the dim light of the cave would not give away her smooth cheeks.

  “You have quite a mouth on you. Perhaps losing your tongue would keep you quiet.”

  “Not bloody likely,” grumbled Eddie, who had inched closer.

  Caragh shot him a quelling look, but not before the captain noticed their resemblance.

  “Your younger brother doles out the orders, does he? And why would that be? Why isn’t it one of the older men, or even you, in charge?”

  “I never said I was in charge. I said I was the voice of reason.”

  “I suspect they are one and the same in this case.” He stepped toe-to-toe with Caragh but did nothing more for a long moment. Then he called over his shoulder, “Load everything the boats can hold.”

  Caragh shifted as though to stop them before a manacle captured her upper arm. When she looked down, it was the man’s hand, not iron.

  “Where did that reason go? I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you make another move.”

  Chapter 2

  Rowan McNeil watched. Eyes the color of Highland grass after a storm turned into emerald shards that shot daggers toward him. The transformation would have been astonishing if it were not so menacing. Even though he stood head and shoulders over the small figure in front of him, he was almost tempted to take a step back. After a puzzling moment of doubt, Rowan remembered who was in control of the situation. The green eyes bored into his as anger seethed from the youth, who did not flinch as their gazes met.

  “A bit of temper there,” he spoke softly.

  “Unlike any you could imagine.”

  This time his laugh held no humor. Rowan bent down to peer more closely at the slim body, with narrow shoulders and cheeks without the hint of bristles. While the boy’s physique struck him as odd, he was more intrigued by the spirit the lad was showing. He lacked a cabin boy since his last one caught a fever and died. Rowan liked his spunk, even if he would have to train the lad to curb it.

  “You shall get your wish that no more of your villagers are harmed, but we shall take what I want, including you.”

  “I think not,” Caragh had another knife poking into Rowan’s ribs before he saw her hand move. With one of his hands still clasping her arm in a punishing grip, the other wrapped around the fine bones of her wrist and squeezed, but she refused to drop the knife no matter how much pain he inflicted.

  “Stubborn to boot,” Rowan quipped. It took little force on his part to push the arm away, but he noted the wrist seemed almost feminine. Without much more thought, he wrapped his arm around the lad’s waist and hoisted him over his shoulder.

  Caragh felt the wind whoosh from her as her belly landed against what she was sure was granite and not a shoulder. She kicked out, but an arm clapped around her legs after a firm swat landed on her backside. She growled and snagged her fingers into his hair and yanked down as hard as she could. Rowan’s neck snapped back with the unexpected force, and Caragh found herself falling to the ground. The height from which she fell created an impact that knocked the wind from her.

  “You had best learn now, before we board my ship, that I do not tolerate insubordination,” Rowan growled.

  “Then you should learn now that taking me will be a mistake that you rue,” Caragh responded.

  “We shall see.” He yanked her back onto her feet but thought twice before letting her near any part of him again. He pushed her in front of him toward the mouth of the cave.

  Caragh heard the running feet and knew who they belonged to before she could see him. She tried to turn and step around the beastly man, but he shoved her forward.

  “Stop! Take me instead,” came the voice of her younger brother, and she cringed.

  “No.” The flat statement from the pirate was both an annoyance and a relief to Caragh.

  “Stop!” Eddie tried once again.

  “Let it go, Eddie. Stay and care for Mama and Da.”

  Rowan’s brow crinkled at the familiar term for father. He did not know too many Englishmen who would use the word. He had no more time to muse over it as he shoved the boy into the dinghy and stepped in behind him. It was loaded down with the treasures his men had hauled, but there was just enough room for the oarsman, his large frame, and his unexpected guest.

  The dinghy had just entered the open water beyond the eddy when a voice reverberated against the cliffs.

  “Caragh!”

  Rowan looked back at the shore to see a line of men as the young man who tried to stop him continued to scream a woman’s name. Movement caught the corner of his eye as a surcoat flew toward him and a boot thumped against his oarsman. Then a splash. He watched in shocked silence as toes sunk into the depths. He did not stop to think before he pulled his sword belt from his waist and his shirt over his head as he toed off his boots. He was in the water only moments later. His hands swept along as he tried to find his captive’s body. He was sure the lad would sink. He resurfaced when his screaming lungs could bear no more. He looked around and saw a figure on the other side of the dinghy swimming toward the headland, which was now closer than the beach where they launched.

  Caragh kept her head down and kicked as hard as her wool leggings would allow. While all the extra layers kept her warm while she was on land, they were like an anchor on her now. She wind milled her arms as she made progress toward land. She prayed the pirate captain was unable to swim, like so many other sailors. Hearing a splash entirely too nearby,
she kicked harder and pushed herself as her arms and legs began to feel like lead in the frigid water. She refused to let the sea swallow her, and she had no intention of being a pirate’s captive. She made it to the outcropping of rocks and began to scramble, but a hand wrapped around her ankle and tugged. She wanted to kick out with the other foot, but that would only cause her to fall face first. She struggled to grasp rocks above her head and tried dragging herself up, but it was no use. The hand around her ankle let go just long enough for an arm to replace it around her waist. She flailed and kicked, but her struggle was futile. The oarsman brought the small boat around, and the man hauled her over the side. He clamped her onto the seat next to him, and his glare told Caragh she would gain nothing at this point if she rebelled.

  Chapter 3

  Rowan was at a loss for what to do. Now he was sure he had a lass and not a lad sitting next to him. His concern for the spirited sprite had caused him to follow her into the water, and it was his pride that refused to let her escape. When he pulled her into his hold without the added layer of the surcoat, he had felt the feminine curve of her waist, and the weight of her breasts hung over his forearm. Now they were closer to his ship than the shore. He looked down at the shivering woman next to him, and his fingers itched to pull the sodden cap from her head. He marveled at how she managed to keep it on despite her headfirst dive. As his eyes swept over her, their gazes, and for the first time he saw true unadulterated fear. Emotions stirred in his chest that he had not felt in many years: shame and regret.

  “Bluidy hell,” he uttered under his breath.

  “Hell is at least warm,” came an answering murmur.

  Once again, her comments tempted him to laugh, but the weight in his chest was pressing too heavily to muster any amusement.

  Neither spoke until they reached the ship, and Rowan nudged her to stand. When she refused to move, he hefted her to her feet and leaned in so the oarsman could not hear.

  “Do not embarrass me in front of my men, lass, or I will be forced to punish you. Since I have no intention of lashing you in public once you’ve been stripped bare from the waist up, I shall reserve the pleasure of that view for my eyes only in my cabin.”

  Caragh scrambled up the ladder, and Rowan was amazed at the ease with which she moved. She had clearly done it many times. She swung her legs over the rail and landed on the deck with nearly no sound. She looked around as the crew stood gawking at her. She had discreetly looked down at herself in the dinghy and pulled her linen shirt from her body. She knew she could still pass for a boy, barely. Her hand reached for her knife, strapped to her ankle, but the same large body that captured her on the rocks pushed her forward.

  “New cabin boy,” Rowan called out before dragging her below deck. He pushed the door to his cabin open and thrust her through the doorway. “Explain.”

  Caragh moved around the table in the cabin’s center and went to stand before the porthole. She did not say anything and did not move once she took her spot before the small window.

  “I said explain,” Rowan roared. His initial remorse had worn off and was now replaced with anger. He was not entirely sure if he was angry at the young woman for risking her life by being in the cave and then jumping into the water, or at the men who allowed her to be part of the smuggling ring, or at himself for not realizing sooner that she was not definitely not a “he.”

  When one slight shoulder shrugged and no words came forward, Rowan charged across the small space. It only took him three steps to have his hands on her shoulders. He spun her around, yanked the cap from her head, and watched a wave of strawberry-hued hair fall about her shoulders and back.

  “You are testing the very last shred of my patience.”

  Caragh knew she was toeing a fine line, but she did not care. She would rather be dead than a prisoner. She quirked an eyebrow at him in challenge.

  “You think if you push me too far, I will lash out in anger and kill you. You’d rather not be a prisoner.”

  Caragh sucked in a whistling breath, surprised that he understood her silent musing.

  “No such luck. I have no intention of killing you, but I am keeping you.”

  Caragh pooled as much saliva as she could and spat on his cheek. Rowan did not even flinch. He had put his shirt back on in the dinghy, and now used his sleeve to wipe his cheek. He looked down at the trembling woman and saw the defiance in her eyes. Her quaking was from the cold or perhaps out of anger, but it was not from fear. That had vanished since their boat ride to his ship. He took her by her elbow and crossed the cabin to a chair. He sat and drew her across his lap, her hair trailing on the ground. His hand rained down four hard smacks, two for each cheek. When she made not a peep, he swatted her four more times. This time with more force, but she still did not make a sound. His hand hurt him more than her backside seemed to hurt her.

  “You will come to understand very quickly that aboard my ship, those under my command heed my orders the first time they are given, or they face punishment. My men receive the lash on-deck, but I shall reserve your punishments for the privacy of our cabin.”

  Rowan frowned as he heard the last two words ring in his ears. He knew there was no way he could allow her above deck to sleep near the other men, but the term “our” implied that the cabin would be shared as if they were equals. He clenched his teeth.

  “Count yourself lucky. This first indiscretion has earned you a spanking with my hand over your clothes. You will not be so fortunate in the future. I will warm your bare bottom if you are insolent again.”

  Rowan stood, and Caragh nearly tumbled to the floor, catching herself in time. She shook her hair out of her eyes, where mutiny simmered. Rowan saw the teeth marks and the blood on her lip and realized she had not uttered a sound because she had muffled her discomfort. He reached up, and while she flinched, she did not pull away. He ran the pad of his thumb over her lip away from where she had split it. He looked to the table on his left and spotted a handkerchief, old but clean. He blotted her lip until the linen came away clean.

  “Must you be so stubborn?” He asked quietly, more to himself than to Caragh. “I know your given name is Caragh, but I do not know your surname, nor do you know my name at all. I am Rowan MacNeill, the captain of the Lady Grace.”

  A smile twitched at the corner of her lip but died when she realized he would see.

  “Named for your wife?”

  Rowan shook his head but smirked. “Haven’t got one.”

  “Ah, then for your mistress?”

  “Haven’t got one.”

  “Not just one, I would imagine. Several, but you picked one?”

  “I don’t keep a mistress. Too expensive and too bothersome.”

  “Then perhaps your favorite whore,” Caragh deduced.

  “You are making quite a lot of assumptions.”

  “Only the last was an assumption. The others were questions.”

  “You’re still not right.”

  “A daughter?”

  “I have no daughters, nor any sons.”

  “Then I am at a loss, unless you simply like the name Grace.”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mother?” Caragh could not keep the shock from her voice as her eyes widened, and her crossed arms unfolded to her sides.

  “We all have one. Even pirates.”

  “Was she a pirate queen?”

  “Decidedly not,” he quipped. “Though it would have been a fitting name, since she had the grace of a queen.”

  Caragh caught the sadness that flashed into his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it came. However, there was a shift in their dynamic. His gentle touch had soothed Caragh, though she could not fathom why. Not why he did it, nor why she permitted it.

  “Are you a MacNeill of Barra?”

  “I am,” That one question made him more wary than anything else during this odd evening raid. He was surprised that he admitted as much to her, but not many Englishwomen would know of Barra, let alone th
at it was a MacNeill stronghold. A piratical MacNeill stronghold.

  “Then I should tell you that my mother is a MacLeod. Of Lewis.”

  Rowan’s face broke into a broad smile, and what had been an uncommonly handsome face transformed into a thing of beauty. Caragh felt heat suffuse through her as the recipient of such a warm gaze and charming smile. She wanted to believe it was genuine, that the mirth in his gaze was real and not mocking her. She suddenly wanted far more than was reasonable with her captor.

  “She is a long way from home,” Rowan observed. “And you have avoided telling me your family name. I’m sure it’s not Scottish.”

  “True,” Caragh watched as his smile slipped at her monosyllabic response, and it compelled her to say more. She did not want his smile to vanish. His even white teeth mesmerized her. “It’s Pedrick. My father is a fisherman and sometimes trades as far north as Scotland. He met my mother one summer when he made several runs up the coast. By winter, he asked her to marry him.” Caragh shrugged. “And now you found my brother and me in Bedruthan Steps.”

  “Aye. A village known as much for smuggling as Barra is for pirates.”

  Caragh’s eyes narrowed. She only knew about Barra because the MacLeods of Lewis and the MacNeills of Barra were seafaring rivals. Not many knew of the sleepy hamlet of Bedruthan Steps.

  “You needn’t glare. Your little village is gaining a name among the pirating world. A few loose lips aboard a privateer boat that was captured, and yours is now a well-known smugglers’ cove.”