The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1)

by Alex Westmore

  “Who––” Quinn nodded. “Ah. Patrick. Is he––”

  “He rode through the night to reach me. I think he believed you were going to die.” Bronwen handed Quinn a small cup of water. “I expected it to be much worse. You are already healing quite nicely, and the sewing is well done. Your cook has good skills. Very good.”

  “He spends more time sewing than cooking, I’m afraid.” Quinn winced.

  “Well, perhaps you ought to stay further away from the tip of a sword.”

  “That’s what the men said. I have to get back to the ship.” Quinn struggled to sit back up, but the pain in her side was too much.

  “And you will. Just not tonight. Grace O’Malley has left men in the village and surrounding the castle to protect against a second attack. No one is leaving without you.”

  “Where’s Paddy now?”

  “Where else would he be? Standing guard by the front door.”

  Quinn grinned and closed her eyes. “But of course. How are the others?”

  “I do not know about the others, but I did hear your crew lost at least three men, and there are several others whose bodies shall never be the same.”

  Quinn started to get up, and once again Bronwen pushed her down. “You must give my unguents time to work. Please. Relax. The Malendroke is moored offshore. For the time being, you are going to lie on this bed and heal. Do not force me to tie you to it.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Bronwen raised her eyebrows. “Oh, but I would. You rise up once more––”

  “Fine.” Quinn sighed and closed her eyes. She had no energy left for this fight. Besides, she had never won a battle with Bronwen. Ever. “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome, my friend. Now, one final question, and then you’re to rest. Did something... happen between you and Fiona Moynihan?”

  Quinn’s eyes popped open. “Why would you think that?”

  “She sent three of her men to stand watch over you and this place. Three very large men.”

  “Nothing happened. I... I protected her. She wanted me to stay with her, but... well... it is obvious why I could not.”

  Bronwen held her hand. “There is nothing about any of this that is obvious, Quinn. While I understand blood oaths like the one you, Kennedy, and Shea share, I worry about the duplicitous nature of this life you are leading. How will you ever find real love if you are not really yourself?”

  Quinn looked away. “Love is not my concern right now, Bronwen. Once I find Shea, I can worry about the next step in my journey.”

  Bronwen gently caressed Quinn’s head. “Oh, my dearest one, you forget how well I know you. This life you are leading has filled your spirit with more joy than I have ever witnessed in you. I feel it even as you sit here trying to heal.”

  “But?”

  “But it’s only temporary. One cannot hide one’s light beneath a bushel basket, even if that basket is golden. Light needs to shine. Always.”

  Quinn grinned slightly. “I did not know you read the Bible.”

  “I’ve read a great many wise books, Quinn, but the greatest piece of wisdom I can offer is for you to find love and happiness as Quinn Gallagher, not Kieran Callaghan.”

  “I rather like Kieran.”

  “Of course you do. What is not to like? He is charming, daring, brave, and wise. He also knows how to talk to women and how to treat them like human beings. The problem is, he is also a liar, a fraud, and a fantasy.” Bronwen rose and gathered her robe around her. “Those three things will eat away at the light. Always. Now, enough talk. Sip this tea. It will relax the muscles around the wound for faster healing.” Tipping the cup toward Quinn’s lips, Bronwen uttered a prayer in ancient Gaelic. “Rest now.” Kissing Quinn’s forehead, Bronwen removed herself from the room.

  Quinn finished the tea in a couple of gulps and laid back down, Bronwen’s words floating about her mind. The priestess was right about Quinn hiding her light, but did not yet understand that until she’d gone under the bushel basket, there had been no light.

  And that darkness was unacceptable.

  As for being a fraud and a liar, she wasn’t so sure that was altogether true. Yes, she was not really a man, but she never said she was, had she? Was it her fault people assumed? She created an alternate persona that was perceived as male.

  Was she responsible for the misperceptions of others, or was she deluding herself that she wasn’t, in fact, a liar?

  Closing her eyes, Quinn let the medicinal tea take effect and lead her to dreams she’d never want to wake from.

  ***

  When I awoke, I discovered I’d been asleep two and a half days. The sleep, which I clearly needed, enabled me to heal at a much faster rate thanks to Bronwen’s potions and salves. As a Druid priestess, her healing methods are second to none, and in no time, my body had repaired itself nearly eighty percent.

  I’d been afraid the captain had sailed without me.

  She had not.

  Instead, she had decided to keep her ear to the wind in the event that the English took a second run at Blackrock Castle.

  They have not.

  Upon seeing us, her face lit up like I had never witnessed, and she expressed how glad she was that I pulled through. Apparently, three others had not been as fortunate as I. Then she explained her enthusiasm:

  We will sail, she informed us, after a ball at the castle. The ball is to be a celebration of having beaten the English back. She is worried the English will strike that night in an effort to put the fear of England into the upper class, so she agreed to lend her men to the cause.

  Captain O’Malley needs eyes on the inside of the castle during the ball, lest any Englishman manages to make his way in.

  Those eyes are to be mine and Patrick's. The captain said we are the only two with enough grace and charm to pull it all together, so she gave us our aliases, told us to get ourselves some noble clothing, and said that Geoffrey Moynihan will make sure we are on the list.

  I can’t help but be excited.

  Dressed as an upper-class aristocrat, I will be able to see Lady Fiona on her level and perhaps even enjoy a dance or two... that is, as long as I am able to fool her into seeing the nobleman and not the pirate.

  Oh.

  Yes.

  Bronwen appears to be correct, doesn’t she?

  I am a fraud.

  ***

  Quinn stood tall while Connor and Murphy put the finishing touches on her clothes.

  “Why, these threads fit ya like ya own ’em.” Murphy said, adjusting Quinn’s collar. “Ya look like ya b’long in ’em.”

  Captain O’Malley had given them enough coin to see a tailor. Patrick went, but Quinn did not. She had no need. The clothes she’d picked up from Kennedy the last time she made it home would suffice. Quinn had gathered up one of her own dresses and one of her father’s best suits in the event that she needed them.

  It would appear she got them none too soon.

  So, with the proper attire and pedigree from a northern clan, Quinn and Patrick made their way toward Blackrock Castle, decked out in their finest.

  “Are you certain Lady Moynihan will not recognize you?” Patrick asked.

  Quinn shook her head. The sun was at three o’clock. They were early for the ball, but by the time they arrived, there would be enough people to keep the Moynihans busy. “I hope not. My face was blackened from the cork, it was quite dark, and I wore a bandana. Besides, why would she ever expect a lowly pirate to attend her party dressed like a dandy?”

  Patrick frowned. “A dandy? You say that with disdain. Don’t forget where we truly belong, Quinn.”

  “That’s just it, Paddy. I am unsure you and I belong in the same place.”

  Patrick slowed his horse. “Don’t start that again. You cannot stay on Grace’s ship no matter how much you enjoy the life of a dirty seaman.”

  “You have no say in the matter.”

  Patrick started to argue, then gave up. “We shall see. In th
e meantime, I am worried the captain knows something about us. Why did she pick us for this responsibility?”

  Quinn inhaled deeply. “I told her about Shea.”

  Patrick stopped. “What? You didn’t!”

  “I did. Patrick, Captain O’Malley is an astute woman who keenly watches everyone around her. To lie to her about why I was on board would have gotten us tossed at the nearest port.”

  “That wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Not for you, but for Shea, it would be. Grace has me considering that slavers may have mistaken Shea for an African.”

  “I seriously doubt they believed that after they grabbed her. I can attest to what a furious little fighter that woman is.”

  Quinn smiled softly at the memory of a three-inch-long gash on Patrick’s cheek once from playing too rough with Shea. “Aye. She fairly well beat the bad right out of you that day.”

  “I’ve never laid a hand on her since. So I take it we’re allowed to stay on the ship?”

  “Aye. As long as we keep fighting, we stay.”

  Patrick sighed. “How you can stand it, I’ll never know. All that burping and passing wind is enough to make a donkey sick.”

  “Let me put you in a corset and heavy dress, shoes too tight for your feet, and nothing to do but stand around wishing you weren’t wearing the lot of it, and you’d quite easily know how I can stand it.”

  “But it’s how things are supposed to be.”

  “For other women, yes. Just not for me. Never for me.”

  When they reached the gate to the outer wall, four guards stopped them, and they gave their aliases. After being allowed inside the walls, they were stopped twice more before finally entering the castle.

  “Lord Moynihan is certainly not taking any risks.”

  “No, he is not. The party is a message to anyone else thinking they can just waltz in here and take our land or our castles or our... people, and I, for one, applaud him for it.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Unlike the utilitarian castles of the Clan O’Malley, this one was much lighter, warmer, and more inviting. The grand hall, with its colorful, flowing tapestries and enormous stone fireplace, beckoned all to enter at once, and guests were already enjoying the music from a four-man orchestra playing off to one side.

  The scent of meat cooking wafted in the air, and the numerous herbs and spices fluttered about in a most teasing and tantalizing manner.

  “Try to behave yourself,” Patrick growled, moving toward the grand hall. “And if anything goes wrong, use your daggers and get out.”

  Nodding, Quinn checked the two daggers she’d concealed up her sleeves. “We meet at the south gate, then.”

  Patrick was already entering the hall. “Aye. Have fun.”

  When he disappeared from sight, Quinn sighed heavily. She needed to send Patrick home. He seemed so unhappy, so out of place on the Malendroke. He was miserable, and he was making her miserable.

  It was definitely worth considering. After all––

  “Well now, who do we have here?” came a high-pitched female voice to her left.

  Quinn turned and saw a not-unattractive woman with auburn hair draped over the shoulders of a pale yellow dress. The woman practically floated up to her. “Where has Fi been hiding you?”

  Quinn bowed from the waist. “I hail from the north. No one has been hiding me... at least none that I know of.”

  The woman laughed like a braying donkey in a way that actually startled Quinn. “Aren’t you a clever thing?”

  “I’ve been called many a thing, m’lady, but never clever.”

  The braying continued. Quinn looked around for an escape route.

  “I see you’ve never been here. Allow me to show you into the great hall... ” she hesitated, waiting for Quinn to fill in the blank.

  “Killian. Killian Murphy.”

  The woman held her hand out for Quinn to kiss, which she did.

  “Siobhan Riordan, but then, I am quite sure you know that. My family is well known on this coast.”

  “Of course I do. Your father exports potatoes.”

  Siobhan smiled. “Well met. Come. Let’s find our way to the festivities.” She threaded her arm through Quinn’s and led her to the grand hall; the lady’s mouth never stopped moving as she spoke, seemingly without the need to inhale.

  The hall was only slightly different than those Quinn had visited with her family several times over the course of her life. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries of hunting and green fields. The large fireplace was cavernous and threw out enough heat to warm the entire room. There were well-dressed people milling about, laughing, eating, drinking, and talking politics. In one far corner stood a harpist and flutist playing off to one side while on the other side were two violin players.

  “Tell me about yourself... Killian? May I call you Killian?”

  “Aye.” Quinn’s eyes scanned the hall, but she could not find Fiona.

  “... and then my da sold him a thousand or so sheep... ”

  Quinn’s eyes swept the hall once more, this time looking for Patrick. When their eyes met, he cast his gaze in the direction of another room. Her brother knew her so well.

  Quinn followed his line of sight and began extricating her arm from Siobhan’s iron grip. “I have to excuse myself, m’lady, as I’ve just seen a man I need to speak with about business.”

  “Oh, do not mix business when there is such potential for play.”

  Quinn bowed to her. “Upon my return.”

  “But––”

  With ten brisk strides, Quinn escaped the overly talkative Siobhan and entered a side hallway whose large wooden doors were intricately carved with the Moynihan clan’s coat of arms.

  Quinn entered the hall and closed the door quietly behind her. Choosing the door on the left, she quietly opened it and peeked in. There, gazing out the window, stood Fiona Moynihan. She wore the most beautiful pearl-colored dress with stunning opaline beads entwined with lace, and her long tresses hung like a curtain down her back, unmoving in perfection. If she had heard Quinn enter, she did not move. Instead, she simply continued staring out the window.

  Quinn watched her from the side as she gazed out over the garden. Her skin was flawless. Her hair shone in an almost unnatural way. Everything about her was peaceful––like serenity washed over her.

  Just looking at her made Quinn feel at peace.

  “I beg your pardon,” Quinn softly said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

  Fiona slowly turned toward her. “No begging. No pardoning. Just save me from my incredibly boring guests.”

  Quinn walked to the window and past Fiona to see what she had been staring at. To her surprise, Quinn could see the harbor from the window, the Malendroke rocking in the distance. “You appear wistful, m’lady,” Quinn said, keeping her back to Fiona. “I wish not to be an interloper in your deep thoughts.”

  “Perhaps because I am, and you are not interrupting anything except a silly dream of a sillier woman.”

  Quinn still did not look at her, keeping her own gaze riveted to the ship. That ship was like Quinn’s north star that kept her centered and balanced. “I read once that it costs nothing to dream and everything not to. So whatever is your wish, it is better than not having one.”

  Fiona tilted her head toward Quinn ad studied the side of her face. “What a lovely sentiment. However, there are dreams that can cost you plenty.”

  Quinn turned and caught Fiona’s eye. “Such as?”

  A few moments ticked by before Fiona asked, “Have you ever wished to be with one who was beneath your station?”

  “I do not believe I have, no. I suspect it would be quite painful.”

  “Painful? Yes. I suppose that’s a good way to describe it. It is... a lingering pain that is always present. And if your dream did come true, what would it cost?”

  “I suppose one would learn to live with such pain of loss since the altern
ate choice would be unwise and much too costly.”

  “Unwise. Interesting choice of words.” Fiona stood shoulder to shoulder with Quinn, and they both stared out the window. “How so?”

  “Unwise because the inevitability of heartbreak. The external pressures put upon such a mismatched relationship would ultimately destroy it.”

  Fiona slightly turned her face toward Quinn. “So, what would you do?”

  “Do?”

  “Aye. If you were in love with a woman beneath your station, would you be able to pay the price for that love? To give up your home, your family, your way of life?”

  Quinn stared straight ahead, her heart beating so hard inside her chest she could hear it in her ears. “I imagine I would treasure the mythology of what I believed it could be, knowing full well those unmade memories would be superior to the broken ones that would ensue.”

  Fiona returned her gaze out the window. “Unmade memories. If I didn’t know better... and I do not... I would think you are a poet.”

  Quinn shook her head. “Not I. I am merely well-read.”

  They both suddenly turned and gazed for a split second into each other’s eyes.

  Fiona spoke first. “Beware Lady Riordan. She has been in hot pursuit of a husband for well over a year, and I would hate to see you snagged in her verbose web.”

  Quinn stepped back and composed herself. “Verbose web? Now who is the poet?”

  “Well, it is not as poetic as it is true. She is a real spider, that woman. Every man she marries dies, and she goes immediately in pursuit of another.”

  “I see. So is that the sticky feeling I had on the back of my neck?”

  Fiona tossed her head back and laughed. “Oh, but you are far too quick and much too charming for the likes of that windbag. She would make you a miserable man.”

  “I do believe she made one of my ears bleed with her incessant blathering.”

  Fiona covered the laughter coming from her mouth. “Oh dear. Bleeding ears. Much too humorous. I’m afraid you’ve made me laugh like a serving wench.”

  “Then perhaps the divide between you and who you wish to be with isn’t so great a chasm after all.” Quinn bowed and started for the door. “I ought to take my leave before tongues start wagging.”