The Highland Rogue

by Amy Jarecki

  “Holy Mother Mary!” Runner gripped the paper in his fist and scanned the darkened buildings. Where the blazes was the captain?

  Making a quick decision, he tugged on the dog’s collar. “Ye found me, now let’s make haste to find Captain Cameron!”

  * * *

  “Be gone with ye and never darken these doors again!” shouted the haggard madam while Kennan and Lachie Mor backed out of the last brothel in Port Royal, pistols in hand.

  “I reckon this is the most unfriendly town I’ve ever had the displeasure of searching,” growled the quartermaster. “Och, they’re even more cantankerous than Campbells.”

  Kennan honed his gaze on the closed door, ready to fire if anyone dared come after them. They stood silent for a moment, the only footsteps coming from the beach, approaching at a sprint.

  Both Kennan and Lachie Mor shifted their aim toward the sound.

  “Captain!” yelled Runner, his youthful voice pegging him.

  “Why isn’t he with the skiffs?” grumbled Lachie under his breath. “I’ll not tolerate a wee mutineer.”

  “Wheesht, perhaps he’s bearing news.” Kennan lowered his flintlock and hastened toward the lad…and that miserable hound. “What is it?”

  “Bannock had this tied around his collar,” he said, waving a slip of parchment.

  Taking it, Kennan arched his brow at the dog before he inclined the paper toward the moonlight. “God blind me, she’s aboard the Silver Mermaid.”

  Lachie Mor snatched the parchment and shook it. “But that’s not Vane’s ship.”

  “Ye reckon? Who in this town has told us the truth?” Kennan started back toward the shore at a run. “Find MacNeil. Tell him all hands onboard at once. Lachie Mor—I want you on the first skiff. We sail within the hour.”

  “What can I do to help?” asked Runner, taking the lead.

  “What was the Silver Mermaid’s heading?” Kennan asked as they arrived at the beach, the sand slowing their progress.

  “She headed due north, then tacked northeast once she cleared the rocks.”

  The sound of the boatswain’s whistle pierced through the night air. Dear God, they couldn’t cast off fast enough.

  * * *

  Locked in a small chamber below the gun deck of the Silver Mermaid, Divana sat on the plank floor in darkness. Inside, there was nary a stalk of straw let alone a chair or anything to provide a modicum of comfort. The seas were rough, making the ship rock, her timbers creaking and groaning with her sway. The wind rushed beyond the single porthole, from which a blue ray of moonlight shone onto the floor in front of her feet. The pall of salt pork and pickling wafted from below, as did gruff voices and hideous laughter.

  Though the air was heavy and hot, she clutched her fists beneath her chin to calm the chill thrumming through her blood. She was to be sold? To a slaver—the vilest criminals in all of Christendom. No! This couldn’t be happening.

  This was far worse than being stranded on Hyskeir with nothing but her wits and her slingshot. And the measly slip of leather would be of no use at all—not when there wasn’t a stone to be found anywhere in the middle of the ocean.

  “Oy, Ricky, bring me one of them ales,” bellowed Petey just beyond the door.

  Licking her parched lips, Divana nearly hollered for Ricky to bring her a pint as well. How long had it been since she last ate or drank? This morning when she’d broken her fast? Would they feed her on this journey, or would she die of thirst locked in this miserable chamber?

  “Ye’re a good hand,” said Petey. “Ah, ’tis nectar of the gods for a parched throat.”

  “Just as long as ye’ll do the same for me when my turn comes round.”

  “Ye know I will.”

  The man who must be Ricky snorted. “I’ll remember ye offered.”

  “Do ye reckon the captain will give us our share of the plunder once we arrive in Jackson’s Hell?” asked the guard.

  Divana turned her ear to the conversation. Is that where they were taking her? Jackson’s Hell? Vane’s hidden island.

  “If he doesn’t, ’e’ll have a mutiny on his ’ands.”

  “I reckon ye’re not wrong.” Petey’s sinister chuckle rumbled through the timbers. “What do ye aim to do with your share?”

  “Find me a woman—one with a big, round backside.”

  The guard belched. “Too right, and udders large enough to bury my face in.”

  “What about the bit o’ muslin right ’ere?” asked Ricky. “She mightn’t be as buxom as I like, but a fellow could lose ’imself in all that red hair. Why not let me slip inside for a poke?”

  “Not unless ye want to face Vane’s cutlass. ’E said the wench was ’is, the bastard.”

  Hissing through clenched teeth, Divana pushed her back flush against the wall. She swore on the graves of her parents that if any vile brigand touched her, she’d bite a chunk of flesh out of his face. But no matter how much she vowed to fight, the hollowness stretching in her chest refused to stop. She rocked in place, trying not to cry.

  “Do ye reckon Cameron will come after ’er?” asked Ricky.

  “’E’s set to inherit, is ’e not?”

  “That’s what Dubois said—but that French bastard speaks out of both sides of his mouth.”

  “Then what would Cameron want with a lass who dresses like a cabin boy and talks like she comes from the gutter?”

  “Dunno, mayhap she’s a tigress between the linens.”

  “Mayhap she’s the daughter of a duke. Why else would she be dressed like a lad?”

  “Do ye reckon she’s feignin’ an accent?”

  Divana bit her lip to keep herself from shouting the truth. What if they thought she was highborn? Would she still be sold? Aye, most likely. They surely wouldn’t return her to the Lady Heather and apologize.

  “One thing’s for certain,” said Petey. “Cameron will chase after the wench if she is ’ighborn.”

  “I’ll wager Vane is bankin' on it. Then we’ll flank him and blast his brig out of the sea when he crosses through the narrows.”

  No!

  Divana pushed to her feet and paced. Saint Columba, Kennan mustn’t come for her now. He’d be sailing straight into a trap. Destroyed by Jackson Vane once again. The entire crew would be lost—Kennan, Runner, Lachie Mor…Bending forward, she nearly heaved.

  No, no, no! They’ll all be killed if they try to come after me.

  Besides, those brigands were closer to the truth than they realized. Her affair with Kennan was fleeting at best. No matter how much she wanted to believe he loved her, his heart was duty-bound. When they returned to Scotland, he’d have no choice but to find a highborn lass to wed, and push Divana away while he and the future “Her Ladyship” raised bairns in the castle.

  She hid her face in her palms while she tried to will away her tears. This was no time to turn into a simpering maid. She was alone again, and only her wits would see her through this nightmare.

  The lock screeched, making her jolt.

  “Come, wench,” barked the guard. “Vane is asking for ye.”

  Throwing her shoulders back, Divana clenched her fists at her sides. “Whyever would he be keen to see the likes of me?”

  A wicked grin spread across the brigand’s whiskered face. “He’s a man, is he not?”

  She gulped.

  The wretched guard stepped into the tiny chamber. “Will ye come on your own two feet or must I toss ye over me shoulder?”

  Somehow, Divana managed to sweep past him. “Do not touch me.”

  “Oy, ye think ye’re miss ’igh and mighty, do ye now?”

  She said nothing and followed him through the middeck.

  “Ye’d best face it, the life ye may ’ave ’ad afore is gone. If ye defy anything the captain wishes, ’e’ll feed ye to the sharks. And there are monsters around these parts as big as the Silver Mermaid ’erself—swallow ye with one gulp, they will.”

  Divana wished Petey would stop talking as they climbed the steps
aft. The wind blew a gale as they stepped onto the main deck, forcing her to cling to the rail before they proceeded in through the corridor leading to the officers’ cabins.

  Once she was announced, the guard unbound her wrists and pushed her inside, then slammed the door behind her. Again, Divana jolted with the noise. She tightly gripped her arms across her midriff as Vane looked up from his writing table, looking every bit as sinister as he had on the beach.

  The ship pitched, making her lose her balance. After a stutter step, she bent her knees and surfed with the rocking. A storm was brewing for certain.

  Vane’s cabin was smaller than Kennan’s with an enormous four-poster taking up half. Lanterns creaked, swinging from the rafters. Trunks with crosses and symbols carved into dark wood lined the walls. She craned her neck to peer inside an open one.

  Undaunted by the shouts coming from the helm above, Vane poured a dram from a flagon into a stout pewter cup before he spoke. “A tot of rum?”

  Divana rubbed her outer arms. “I’ve nay eaten since dawn. Rum would serve me no good at all at the moment.”

  He grabbed a bunch of grapes from a plate and tossed them at her. “Eat.” He poured a second dram. “Then drink.”

  She plucked a grape and chewed, filling her mouth with tart sweetness. Unable to help herself, she plucked an entire handful and shoved it into her mouth, then wiped the juice from her chin with the back of her hand.

  “Good?” he asked.

  She swallowed, unwilling to admit they were delicious. “Where are you taking me?”

  “We call it Jackson’s Hell—”

  “Your den of thieves.”

  “Not exactly.” His black eyes watched her as he swigged his rum, while the ship continued to sway to and fro, the howl of the wind growing. “When we arrive I expect to meet Captain Finnes. He sailed under my command until he grew wealthy enough to purchase his own ship.”

  Divana feigned a spit. “A slaver—a man with no soul.”

  Vane pushed his chair back and strolled up to her—too close. She stepped away, but he caught her by the hair. “Easy, wench. I’m not planning to hurt you.” He pulled her tresses to his nose and inhaled. “Sweet nectar of womanhood. Finnes will pay thrice for an untouched redheaded woman.”

  “Then you’ll be sorely disappointed.” She tugged away, but he held fast, making her roots sear. She clapped her fingers to her scalp. “Release me.”

  “Has Cameron bedded you?”

  How dare he! “You’re a vile pig!”

  Snorting, he pulled harder while he slid a hand over her breast and cupped it, his eyes filled with malice. “Haste not, sweeting.”

  She thrust her shoulder forward, knocking his arm away. “Keep your filthy fingers to yourself.”

  He chuckled. “I think I have my answer.”

  She pursed her lips tightly together as she skirted his writing table. “Sir Cameron will not come for me.”

  “Hmm. You are unconvincing.” Vane sauntered forward. “Why were you dressed as a lad?”

  “I stowed away. Sir Kennan thought the disguise necessary to keep me safe.”

  “From the men or from him?”

  Casting her gaze downward, Divana covered her cheeks with her palms, praying her face would not betray the love she harbored for Kennan.

  “Honestly I care not whether he follows us, but I reckon he will.”

  He cannot! “Why?”

  “You tell me.” He drummed his fingers atop some sort of ledger. “Why would Cameron protect a stowaway? Aye, you are a pretty girl, aside from the faint scarring on your cheek.”

  Divana covered the marks as she stared at the document beneath his fingertips. At the top, it read The Silver Mermaid — Contents of the Hull. “I-I do not ken what ye mean.”

  “Or have you become his dalliance?”

  A lead ball dropped to the pit of her stomach. Did the pirate suspect the worst? “I wanted an adventure is all.”

  Vane rapped his knuckles on the document, then planted his large palm over the writing. “A woman? Wishing to sail the high seas and risk life and limb, let alone courting scurvy? Was your family unkind?”

  Still staring, she read the list above his fingers—2000 silver pieces of eight, 1 chest of gold, 50 barrels of rum, bolts of silk, tapestries… It had to be a complete manifest.

  “I believe I asked you a question,” Vane demanded, his palm covering the rest.

  “Ah…my family is dead. All died of smallpox, save me.”

  The black-bearded brigand shrank as he moved away from the table. “Recently?”

  She read another entry—sixty barrels of tobacco. “Would my scars be so faint if I still had the sickness?”

  “I reckon not.” Vane’s stance relaxed while he snatched the parchment from his table and rolled it up. “When we reach Jackson’s Hell, you need to look like a woman.”

  He marched over to one of his trunks and pulled out a burgundy gown and tossed it at her. “Put this on.”

  “Here?”

  “Aye here, and if you continue to ask questions, I’ll rip your shirt and breeches off your scrawny body myself.”

  She clutched the dress to her chest. “Then turn your back.”

  “I think not. I need to know exactly what I’m selling.”

  “You will not…” She cast her gaze to the bed, making her tense all the more. Dear Lord, what if he tried to force her?

  “Only if you defy me.” He rubbed a hand across his loins, one corner of his mouth twisting upward. “If you were truly a lad, preserving your virtue might be another matter.”

  He liked to violate lads? Such a thought did nothing to calm her. Divana quickly removed her shirt, but as she pulled the dress over her head, he grasped the damask and tugged it from her grip. “Remove the bounds from your breasts.”

  Divana crossed her arms over her chest. “But I have no stays.”

  “Fie,” he cursed, marching back to the trunk and rummaging through it. He held up a set of stays. “These ought to suffice, though the woman I stole them from was a bit larger.”

  “You stole a woman’s stays?”

  He shrugged, seeming oblivious when the ship pitched so far to port, Divana was thrown against the wall. “She no longer had need of them—met her end in a watery grave.”

  Laughing, he shoved the garment into her hands. With a rustle of fabric, she turned her back, trying to keep her balance. “Then what they say is true. You care not if you murder women and children.”

  “Only those who defy me.” He approached so near, his acrid breath felt like steam against her nape. “Let that be a warning to you. Never defy me, or you will meet your end—I give you my solemn oath.”

  He rocked with the ship’s sway as if he’d been bolted to the floorboards, breathing like a dragon while she unwound the length of linen from her breasts. As soon as the cloth fell to the deck, he grabbed her shoulder and whipped her around, forcing her wrists apart. “Imagine that, love. There’s more there than I would have thought.”

  She wrenched away and crossed her arms over her chest. “Leave me be!”

  “Ha! A modest tart, have we?” He sniggered with a sneer. “Carry on, then.”

  Trembling, she again faced the wall, teetering with the lurch of the ship while she pulled on the petticoats, then began lacing the stays in the front.

  “Shift the laces to the back. I’ll tie them,” he barked. “And hold on to the bedpost for God’s sake.”

  Divana gripped the dark wooden upright, swearing she’d gouge his eyes out with her thumbs if he tried to push her to the mattress. “You’ll cinch the breath out of me.”

  “Remember what I said about defiance?” he said, his voice menacing and surly. “Turn the bloody stays around now, wench.”

  Gulping, Divana glanced at the man over her shoulder. If he stifled her air, she’d die quickly, and that would be far better than being sold into slavery. But instead, he made quick work of tying the laces—just loose enough to allow her t
o breathe. “You’ve done this before.”

  He scowled. “Sisters.”

  “You have a family?”

  He snorted. “Believe it or not, even men like me were born of mothers—though mine was a whore in baroness’s clothing.”

  So, he was highborn—or illegitimate. “Why did ye have this gown?”

  “Never mind the reason. I’m just glad to be rid of it.”

  By the time he finished with his ministrations, he’d raked a comb through her hair and tied it up with a red ribbon. And when she regarded her reflection in his mirror, the balcony of the brothel in Nassau came to mind. The dress stank of camphor and age, and the bodice clung so tightly to her bosom, it made her breasts swell above the scalloped neckline, adorned with garish yellow lace. Divana was no expert in fashion, but there was no way around it—the gown was cheap, old, and most likely a castoff from a lady of easy virtue.

  The ship pitched to starboard so far this time, they both were hurled against the wall.

  “Captain!” someone bellowed, banging on the door. “We’ll not last much longer!”

  Divana looked toward the windows. The night was black as coal, and rain pelted the glass with a deafening torrent.

  Vane thrust a finger beneath her nose. “If you value your life, you will stay inside this cabin. ’Tis the safest place on the Mermaid.”

  As the ship listed, she latched her elbow around the bedpost and held fast while Jackson Vane headed for the storm.

  Will I survive this night? God be with Kennan and the Lady Heather!

  The half barrel containing the manifest Vane had rolled up toppled. Holding on with one hand, she stretched as far as possible, her fingers grazing the edge of the parchment.

  Just a wee bit farther.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Heave to!” Kennan shouted as he cranked the ship’s wheel with all his strength. The Lady Heather fought him, her timbers groaning as waves crashed over the brig’s topsides.

  “Are you mad?” bellowed Mr. MacNeil.

  Gnashing his teeth, Kennan clutched the wheel, his arms shaking with the force of the resistance. “Sound the order, I say! Else we’ll capsize for certain.”

  A bolt of lightning flashed overhead, immediately followed by a thunderous boom so loud, the sound reverberated in his bones. Kennan blinked to clear the driving rain from his eyes as the boatswain’s whistle screeched above the roar of the tempest, giving the order to shift the booms and head directly into the wind.