The Highland Rogue

by Amy Jarecki

  The tangled mesh was just a bit of scrap, but Kennan held up the blue glass orb and laughed as if he’d found a treasure. Who would have thought a snarled mop of fishing net would raise his spirits? For the love of God, he’d just lost a king’s ransom in treasure, and now he was thrilled to be able to fix the leaks on the roof of a decrepit bothy on a remote Hebridean isle.

  He’d go back, secure the thatch, and then pile the driftwood and pray the rain would stay at bay for the night. Bless it, he needed to find a way home. Kennan chastised himself for allowing himself a moment of good humor. Time was wasting while Jackson Vane and the wretched Claude Dubois enjoyed the spoils of the pirate’s thievery.

  Damn them to hell.

  After he climbed back up the crag with the wire and netting, a splash of water and a high-pitched squawk rose over the roar of the surf.

  Oddly, the noise sounded nearby, but Kennan saw not a thing. Could it have been a duck? A tern, perhaps? Most likely, but Kennan never ignored a twist in his gut, and on an isle this size, it wouldn’t take but a moment to inspect. With luck, someone had seen his beacon and come ashore.

  He hastened toward the noise only to stop dead in his tracks. Aye, now he remembered the pool. He’d seen it before. It was supplied with fresh spring water, and a burn from its outlet led to the sea. But when Kennan had ventured past yesterday, there wasn’t a naked woman standing knee deep, bathing.

  Gulping, Kennan blinked, his heart stuttering and completely knocked from its rhythm. Like a daft Highlander, he stared, gasped, and damned near drooled. He should have shifted his gaze away and gone about the business of repairing the roof, but how was a man to avert his eyes from a glimpse of perfection? Divana’s long, red tresses contrasted with the smoothest, creamiest skin he’d ever seen. Oblivious to his presence, she scooped water with her hands, then swirled lye soap up slender thighs. Her movement was graceful and feminine, like a swan preening on a glassy pool.

  He crouched low behind the seagrass, trying to convince himself to turn away. His heart hammered a wicked rhythm, and something stirred he should definitely be ignoring. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed the company of a woman?

  But this was not a woman he ought to begin to consider bedding. To take advantage of her trust would be nothing shy of unconscionable.

  Kennan’s thoughts muddled and blurred when Divana collected her locks at her nape and tied them in a knot. Wearing rags that barely covered her bones, she’d looked like an urchin—albeit a bonny one. How could he have guessed what loveliness lay beneath?

  Kennan stretched his fingers, longing to cup those exquisite breasts and kiss them, worship them, caress them. Succulent pink buds stood proud, made rosier by the cold water. Kennan’s gaze trailed to her waist—it was smaller than he’d imagined—and the flare of her hips so very tempting.

  When a flock of eider ducks squawked overhead, her gaze darted upward. Before he was seen, Kennan crouched and backed away. The lass must never know that he’d been watching. Never know how much she’d stirred his blood.

  He mustn’t forget the woman had welcomed him into her tiny home and cared for him at his weakest hour. Only an unprincipled rogue would take advantage and force himself upon such an angel. Divana was kind and generous and deserved far better than a privateer who’d lost his fortune—a man who’d sworn an oath of revenge against the vilest pirate on the high seas. Hell, once Kennan left this isle and saw her safely settled, he’d sail away. The voyage might well last for years. He hadn’t yet taken a wife because he still had an adventurer’s spirit. There was no use starting something with Divana he’d never be able to finish.

  Chapter Six

  April 14th, 1714

  One month since the Highland Reel fell victim to Jackson Vane’s pirates

  This shovel is nearly rusted clean through,” Kennan said while he tossed a clam into the basket. By the way he moved, he looked as if he’d never been injured.

  Divana chewed her bottom lip, gazing longingly at the rusty blade. She hated for things to wear out, because once they were gone, there was no replacing them. “Well, do not break it. ’Tis the only one I have.”

  He stretched his back, then crossed his ankles and stood akimbo, leaning on the shaft. “Did you bring it from Connel?”

  “Nay.” She walked in a circle while searching the sand for air pockets. She’d spent every night for the past month with this man, she may as well tell him the lot of it. “Men with kerchiefs tied over their faces burst into our cottage at night, forced us out of bed with the points of their bayonets—me uncle in the lead, mind ye, as if he thought we would not recognize me da’s brother with his face covered.” She clenched her fists and let out an angered grunt. “We were lucky to leave with blankets wrapped about our shoulders.”

  “Only blankets—no valise, no food?”

  “We were at death’s door—scarcely able to hold our heads up, let alone think to ask. None of them reckoned we would live out the week.”

  “So, everything here was already in the bothy?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you ken who left it?”

  “No idea. But I reckon by the long, narrow shape of the shovel, someone most likely came to stay during the summer to collect peat.”

  Sir Kennan shoved the blade into the sand and scooped out an enormous hole, one that would have taken Divana three digs to make. “I’ll wager your guess is close to the mark.”

  It bubbled straightaway and she pointed. “Haste, he’s escaping.”

  The big Highlander dug deeper. “Och, you’re a hard taskmaster.”

  She threw her head back to laugh but instead a gasp caught in her throat. “Sir Kennan! Look!”

  Clam forgotten, he followed her gaze. “I’ll be damned.”

  Divana hadn’t allowed herself to hope his bonfire would do its job, but clear as he was digging clams beside her, a single-masted galley approached from the east, its sail billowing with wind.

  “I cannot believe it.”

  Kennan raised his hand to shade his eyes. A tic twitched in his jaw as he pulled Divana behind him. “Redcoats.”

  The protective gesture made her tingle for a moment, but not for long—not with soldiers drawing near. Unable to help herself, she leaned far enough aside to see them. “Ye mean they’ve sent dragoons to fetch us?”

  “They’re not a crew of fishermen, for certain,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll do the talking. There’s only one thing that matters and it is escaping this isle. I’ll sell my bloody soul if I must.”

  She gulped, staring at the approaching boat. “Do ye think they’ll harm us?”

  “Not if we don’t provoke them. I’ve just…” The tic twitched again.

  “What?”

  “I had an altercation with the queen’s dragoons last year in Dundee when a customs officer miscalculated the duties on my shipment.”

  “An altercation? Was anyone injured?”

  “Unfortunately, an all-out brawl burst forth on the pier. We were lucky to escape with our lives.”

  “Good heavens. Why did ye not tell me about this sooner?”

  He gave her a look as if to say there were thousands of secrets he still harbored. “It never came up in conversation.”

  If Sir Kennan was avoiding dragoons, why was he returning to the Highlands? “But were ye not sailing home when ye were set upon by the pirates?”

  “Aye—though I was heading for Achnacarry, where I’d have the protection of clan and kin.”

  “Saint Columba, are we in peril?”

  “I think not. Besides, Dundee is in the Lowlands, clear on the other side of Scotland. And neither me nor my crew started the fighting.”

  This changed things a great deal. She wrung her hands, a stone sinking in her stomach as she watched the galley approach. “Who did?”

  “The first shot was fired from the pier.”

  “’Tis an abomination. Government troops were shooting at a knight of the…of the…” She gave him a nu
dge. “What were ye knighted for?”

  “To begin with, my da’s a knight. I was admitted to his order—the Order of the Thistle—for services to the queen in the War of the Spanish Succession.”

  “Well, that ought to count for something.”

  “Except I’d wager Queen Anne has no idea I exist. She’s not overly enamored with Scotland—or her subjects up here.” Sir Kennan sliced his hand through the air. “Enough talk. That galley will soon run aground on the shore, and the closer she comes, the more likely they’ll hear anything we say. Just remember, I am innocent in all that has transpired.”

  “All?”

  “Shhhh.” He waved his hands above his head. “Hail, ye mates!”

  “Move away from the shore,” bellowed a stocky man wearing a red coat and a tricorne with a white plume.

  Kennan grasped Divana’s hand and urged her back, though he kept his face toward the boat. His hand was warm and filled her with confidence even though the men on the approaching ship were scowling something fierce—one was even aiming his musket at them just as she’d predicted.

  “Those dragoons look none too friendly,” she whispered.

  They furled the sail while oarsmen took their places and rowed the boat onto the beach.

  “Drop anchor,” bellowed the man with the tricorne, standing at the stern. As the crew went about securing the galley, he looked at Sir Kennan yet made no attempt to disembark. “I am Sergeant Corbyn with the queen’s dragoons.” He had a square, clean-shaven face, and strands of brown hair blew into his squinting eyes.

  “Sir Kennan Cameron, and Miss Divana Campbell, at your service.” Kennan started forward, but the man held up his palm, making him stop.

  Bowing, the decorated knight spread his palms to his sides. “We are…shipwrecked.”

  The sergeant put his boot on a bench and rested his elbow on his knee. “MacLeod of Rùm reported your beacon—said this isle was infected.”

  “Nay!” Divana hollered, but Kennan silenced her with a slice of his hand.

  “I’ve been here a month. I’m the one who lit the fires at night and I’ve suffered no ailment—and as a knight of the Order of the Thistle, you have my word there is no sickness here.”

  “Cameron did you say?” Sergeant Corbyn spoke with an English accent. He stroked his chin and glanced away. “Hmm.”

  “My father is Sir Ewen Cameron, clan chief, called the Great Lochiel. I served Queen Anne in the War of the Spanish Succession, and one month past, my ship was set upon by Jackson Vane in these very waters.”

  The sergeant straightened and threw out his hands. “Vane? Why, he’s a queen’s privateer.”

  The man beside her grew so rigid, Divana felt the heat of ire radiating off him. “He’s a scoundrel and a pirate,” Kennan seethed. “He killed my crew and took my ship as well as my coin and cargo.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye, I give you my oath.”

  “What is the name of this vessel?”

  “The Highland…ah…Lass. Aye, the Highland Lass it is.”

  Divana gaped, but she said not a word. If what Kennan had told her was true, he might bargain for trouble by telling them the real name of his ship.

  He took another step toward the galley. “As you can see, the pair of us are as healthy as newborn lambs. Please, can you take us as far as Fort William?”

  She puzzled all the more. Fort William was but a day’s ride from Connel. Did he change his mind and intend to leave her with her heartless kin?

  Sergeant Corbyn gave a nod to one of his men. “You’ll climb into the bow and stay there. But we’re not sailing all the way through the Sound of Mull and up Loch Linnhe for a castaway, no matter who you say you are. I don’t give a rat’s arse if you’re a bloody duke, you’ll undergo quarantine in Mallaig.”

  “Quarantine?” Sir Kennan snorted as he threw out his hands. “But there’s no need, I—”

  “Do you want off this isle or nay?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Kennan glanced from the boat to Divana, his lips forming a white line. “Aye, we’ll go with you.”

  “Men, affix your kerchiefs over your noses and mouths and give the passengers a wide berth.”

  “May I have a moment to collect my belongings?” Divana asked, her legs suddenly weak. Things were happening far too quickly. Yes, Kennan had promised her a position at his family’s keep—she’d have protection there as well. But the last time she was among society, her own kin had abandoned her.

  She gripped her tattered skirts. She hadn’t a single nice garment to wear, nothing suitable for meeting anyone, let alone a chieftain. What if the Camerons rejected her?

  Giving a wink, Kennan grasped her elbow. “I’d best help the lass and hurry her along.”

  She faced him and licked her lips. Within a month she’d come to trust this man. Why did she fear now? They’d just discussed her spade being almost rusted through. She’d die if she stayed behind.

  “Haste ye,” said the sergeant. “We want to make good use of this day’s fine weather.”

  * * *

  On the sea galley, a dragoon used an oar to give Kennan and Divana kerchiefs to tie over their noses and mouths. Kennan snatched his with a scowl. “We’re nay bloody ailing, you maggots. If we were afflicted, Miss Campbell would have perished two years past, and I would be at death’s door.”

  “Shut it,” growled one of the soldiers.

  Kennan shot the man a leer as he tied the damned kerchief in place. Had there been any other option, he never would have set foot in this boat.

  “What do ye reckon they’ll do with us?” Divana whispered after the galley got under way.

  “Lord kens, the bloody back-stabbers. If only we’d been rescued by a fisherman, not a sergeant with a dimwitted crew. Blast my miserable luck of late.”

  “Do ye think he kens about…” She inclined her head over her shoulder. “What ye told me?”

  Kennan rubbed his hand on his thigh, the thumb brushing the hilt of the sgian dubh he’d lashed in place when they’d gone back to the bothy to collect their effects. “I think not. But one thing being a ship’s captain has taught me is never leave anything to chance. And never to forget I have friends in high places. Sailing away from that very incident I mentioned earlier, I helped the Earl of Mar clear his name and return to his post on Queen Anne’s cabinet.”

  The lass’s round eyes sparkled with her amazement. “Ye’re acquainted with an earl?”

  He winked—even in the face of adversity, his chest swelled like a king’s. “I have friends as well as enemies everywhere.”

  “I hope more friends. A person can do without adversaries.”

  “Och, I wish it were so.” Ever since he leapt from his own ship’s plank, Kennan had been plotting his revenge. And Jackson Vane had become the second greatest adversary in his life. Aye, Vane would pay, but the man Kennan truly wanted to ruin was Claude Dubois. During the negotiations for peace between France and Britain, Dubois had weaseled his way into the queen’s court, claiming to be an emissary from King Louis. He also tried to rally the Jacobite leaders against the queen, though in truth he was in London sending information to the French king, who was plotting an invasion of Britain.

  Right now, however, revenge had naught but take a rear seat to the problem at hand. There was no time to waste being detained in quarantine by a sergeant hell-bent on proving himself.

  With a strong westerly wind, the sailing didn’t take more than an hour. Kennan and Divana were forced to disembark at the points of bayonets while the townsfolk looked on as if the castaways were common thieves. Mallaig was no more than a small fishing village, dotted with cottages and one sizable warehouse hewn of stone, used for smoking and salting fish. And it came as no surprise to Kennan when the bastards led them there.

  A narrow, muddied road came from the west into town, following the shoreline. He knew it well enough—had ridden to Mallaig once with his da when he was a lad, but he’d sailed past the sleepy
village more times than he could count.

  Once inside the warehouse, he blinked rapidly to adjust his vision to the dim light. It smelled of pungent fish with a more pleasant overtone of hickory smoke. Divana coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. They walked past a row of women salting fish. Above, two men worked in the tower where the haddock were drying, suspended from wooden poles. Thus far, there were no other redcoats in sight.

  “Turn right,” Sergeant Corbyn barked. “Then up the steps.”

  The spiral stairs were narrow, and Kennan crouched to avoid hitting his head. They emptied onto a landing open to the tower on one side with naught but a rail to prevent someone from falling.

  Divana stepped beside Kennan, her fingers lightly brushing the back of his arm. “This place smells awful,” she whispered.

  “You’ll be retained in here,” said Corbyn, opening the door to an empty room that looked like it might have once been used for storage.

  Kennan didn’t budge. “How long do you intend to hold us?”

  “It will be a fortnight before the physician is back in these parts.”

  Divana clutched Kennan’s arm. “Two weeks? Are ye not taking things a bit far? We’re nay criminals.”

  “She’s right,” he said. “How many times must I say, if we were afflicted with the dread sickness, we’d already be dead.”

  Corbyn rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Orders from my lieutenant are not negotiable, and you’ll stay here until you’ve been cleared by a proper physician.”

  Kennan’s mind raced. He didn’t have time to rot in a smelly warehouse while Jackson Vane sailed farther from Scotland. Damn, he was so close to home he could taste it. “I’d like to send word to my father, Lochiel. Let him know I’m still breathing.”

  A dragoon shoved him toward the minuscule chamber. “You’re full of requests, are you not?”

  “Thinks he’s Lochiel himself,” griped another.

  Divana tightened her grip on Kennan’s arm. “He’s the heir, and ye’re treating him like a petty thief.”

  The sailor smirked, tapping her with the flat edge of his bayonet. “You’d best watch yourself, wench.”