Captured by the Pirate Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  When he helped her push in her chair, his hand brushed her shoulder. A tingle trickled down Anne’s spine, though she suppressed her gasp. Her gaze drifted to his hand—large, strong, sprinkled with coppery hair. He was quite unlike what she’d imagined for a pirate captain.

  He took his seat at the head of the table—a foot away, close enough for her to touch him. He smiled again, white teeth, fetching as the devil.

  She studied the silver salt cellar and nervously tapped it to the exact center of the table. Why does he have to be wickedly handsome? On the few times Anne had been to court, there had been good looking men, but none so imposing as the captain. He had lines at the corners of his gold flecked blue eyes, as if he often squinted directly into the bright sun. His nose was not subtle, but the size and slight hook to it suited him. The nose alone announced this was not a man to trifle with. And his hands…They were large and powerful, but the nails were now clean and neatly trimmed, and in his hands, an elegant brass goblet was held utterly secure.

  Her gaze trailed down to the laces of his shirt and tight heat coiled deep inside when she spied the auburn curls peeking just above his neckline. For no reason at all, she had an urge to touch him—to discover if those curls were as downy soft as they looked.

  “Is my appearance displeasing?”

  “N-no.” Anne glanced behind her, hoping the food would come soon so this meal would be over and she could escape back to her chamber.

  “I will see to it ye have leave to walk the deck.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  She sipped her wine again and studied the ruby liquid within. She could feel his boring eyes upon her, assessing her as she had done him. She dared glance at him and those blues caught hers. He smiled. Again, her cheeks burned.

  “Am I making ye nervous, milady?”

  “Yes…er, no.” Where is the food?

  As if answering her thought, the side door opened and the cabin boy brought in pewter plates filled with roast meat and vegetables.

  “Thank ye, Bran.”

  The boy bowed. “Will there be anything else, m’laird?”

  The captain arched his brow her way, and Anne shook her head. “That will be all for now. Go eat yer supper, lad.”

  He reached for a basket of bread and offered it to Anne.

  “That is the second time I’ve heard to you referred to as laird.”

  “Aye, ’tis what me clansmen call their chieftain.”

  “Chieftain?” She grasped a slice of bread. “So you are a Scottish laird?”

  “Aye.”

  “Of which clan?”

  “Ah, milady, I cannot say.”

  “Must I always call you Captain? I find it quite uncivilized that I am sitting at the table of a man whose name I do not know.”

  “Calum.”

  “Calum?” She liked the simplicity of it. “Is that all?”

  “For the moment.” He leaned toward her and winked. “Now ye have to tell me something.”

  Anne cut a small bit of meat and savored it in her mouth. But chewing was nearly impossible. That rakish wink sent her insides aflutter yet again.

  “Why were ye bound for the River Aln?”

  Anne studied the stern countenance that had now lost its jovial teasing. If she told him, he might ransom her on the spot—but that’s what she wanted. Wasn’t it? Yes.

  “Lady Anne?” He persisted.

  “I was to join my husband in Alnwick.”

  “Husband? But ye wear no ring.”

  She covered the naked finger. “The ring is with him.”

  “Odd.” Calum pushed his chair back a bit, as if distancing himself from her. “The journal said nothing of yer husband.”

  “Captain Fortescue was well aware of my proxy marriage to Lord Wharton.”

  “Wharton?” Calum’s chair screeched across the floorboards. “That ruthless son of an ill-breeding dog.”

  She sat erect. “Pardon me?” But she knew the Scots hated Thomas Wharton. He’d devastated them at the battle of Solway Moss, where he’d earned his barony.

  “How could ye be married to the likes of him?” Calum stood and paced the room, then turned with his fists on his hips. “A fine lot ye’ve got us into.”

  “Me?” A sharp twist of her gut replaced her unease with unabashed disbelief. “I’m not the one who plundered this ship.”

  “Ye were no’ supposed to be aboard.”

  “Tell that to my husband. He paid my fare.” She assumed he had. Anne watched Calum pace. “Am I to eat while you walk the floor like a brooding tyrant?”

  The deadly glare she’d seen when he kicked in her door returned. He dropped his hands and plodded back to his seat. He didn’t touch his food, but guzzled the goblet of wine. Anne waffled between fear of the man and pity. That she chose pity shocked her.

  She wrung her hands. Presently she knew more about the Scot sitting across from her than she did Baron of Wharton, and that was very little. Calum reached for the ewer and refilled his goblet, his face unreadable.

  Anne wanted to say something, but no words came. Her concern for Calum’s plight came as a surprise and toyed with her sensibilities. She turned her attention to her meal but she couldn’t eat. He’d cursed her husband. Did that mean he felt the same contempt for her? She pushed her plate away. “I should like to return to my stateroom.”

  Calum didn’t respond immediately. He swirled the wine in his goblet and then looked up with eyes that had no resemblance to the friendly blues that had greeted her when she entered the room. A tempest brewed behind his eyes. Deadly as nightshade, he watched her as he swallowed and placed the goblet on the table. “’Tis best.” He stood. “I’ll escort ye.”

  He said nothing as they walked the few feet to her stateroom door. Calum used his key to open it and bowed. “Milady.”

  She thought to thank him, but held her tongue and strode into her room. Turning, she saw only the door close. The latch offered a soft click against the creaking of the wooden ship.

  Blessed saints, she’d practically swooned at the sight of him. Blast her betraying heart, and blast Calum’s wayward charm.

  ***

  Anne was already up when a knock sounded on her door. “Come in.”

  Bran, the cabin boy who had served dinner peeked in. “I’ve brought ye some porridge and bread, milady.”

  She gestured to the table. “I was wondering if the captain would see fit to feed me today.”

  “What? Ye think he would push a crust of bread and a jug of ale under yer door?”

  “Possibly not the ale.”

  “Ye’ve got the laird all wrong. If it weren’t for him, the people of Raasay would have starved last winter.”

  “Oh? Is that why he plunders ships? To feed the poor?”

  “We-ell, aye, truth be told.” He reached out and dropped a key in her palm. “This is for yer door. The captain says you’re free to come and go.”

  “How generous of him. I can now leave my stateroom and consort with pirates.”

  “We’re no’ all that bad, milady. Just trying to make a go of it just like any other scrapper out there.”

  Anne studied the boy. As friendly as a Spaniel puppy, he was as tall as her with dark brown curls. “How old are you, Bran?”

  “Two and ten.”

  “Oh my, you’re quite tall for your age.”

  Bran ran his fingers along the plaid that crossed over his shoulder and stood a bit taller. “Calum’s training me to be a knight.”

  “Honestly? That is quite a great responsibility at two and ten.” She reached for the bread and broke it in half. “Where are your parents?”

  He kicked a floorboard with the toe of his boot. “Me da’s dead but me ma works in the kitchen at Brochel Castle.”

  “Brochel? Is that your clan’s keep?”

  “Aye, milady. ’Tis on the isle of Raasay.”

  Anne lifted her spoon. “And to which clan do you belong?” Hmm. Gathering information would be ea
sier than she thought. She only need ask the right person.

  “MacLeod.” The boy rubbed his arm and grimaced.

  Anne studied him furrowing her brow. “Are you injured?”

  “’Tis only a bruise, milady.”

  She stood and folded her arms. “Show me.”

  Bran’s gaze shot to the door. Biting his bottom lip, he reluctantly rolled up his sleeve. “’Twill be right in a week.”

  Anne swallowed her shock. The boy’s whole arm was purple from the wrist right up to his shoulder. “What happened?” She inspected it for swelling. “This should be immobilized. It could be broken.”

  “I took a tumble off the rigging.” With effort, he flexed his muscle. “See. I can move it.”

  “I’m not convinced.” Anne pulled her bundle of healing essences from her trunk. “First, I shall rub a salve into it and then we’ll put it in a sling.”

  Bran stepped back. “I cannot work with me arm bound up.”

  Anne made him sit in the chair and carefully smoothed in a salve of houseleek and St. John’s wort. “It will not heal properly unless you take care of it.”

  She fashioned a sling from a piece of linen and tapped his nose. “Rest it as much as you can. Do you understand? ’Tis very important.”

  “Aye, milady. Thank ye.”

  “Bran,” a deep voice bellowed from the corridor.

  The boy blanched. “’Tis Master John. I must away.”

  ***

  When Anne finished her breakfast, she picked up the key and swung her cloak around her shoulders. She wished she had her dagger. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d find out on the decks, but she couldn’t hide in her stateroom forever.

  Slowly opening the door to the main deck, Anne listened for any sign of improper behavior. Sails flapped in the whistling wind, men worked together mending the rigging above and when she stepped out, she saw John manning the wheel. Rather a peaceful setting for a band of pirates.

  Scanning the deck for Calum, Anne pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and walked to the rail. The dark sea rolled and foamed white in the ship’s wake. Water stretched in every direction. Refreshing, salty wind caressed her face.

  Footsteps tapped on the stairs leading from the quarterdeck above. The captain stepped beside her with that fetching grin of his. “Good morning, milady. I trust ye slept well.”

  She hoped her sudden queasiness had been caused by the rolling of the sea. “Reasonably well, considering I have no idea where we are headed or when I’ll see my blessed England again.”

  Calum’s lips thinned. He rested his elbows on the rail and looked out to sea. The wind blew his hair away from his face, unveiling the attractive and angular lines to his jaw.

  Anne followed his gaze. “Where are we? There’s no land in sight.”

  “We’re giving England a wide berth. Once we cross into Scottish waters, ye’ll see the coast.”

  “And what am I to do until then?”

  “Whatever baronesses do, I suppose.”

  “I expected you to force me to swab the decks or mend the sails.”

  “Would ye like to mend sails?”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m your prisoner. Of course you might do all sorts of horrible and vile things.”

  “Mending sails is vile?”

  Anne looked skyward. “Saints preserve me.”

  Calum rubbed his palm over a belaying pin, which supported a coil of hemp rope. “I could set up a surgery. Half me men asked to rap on yer stateroom door to show ye their battle wounds—fix them up as ye did Bran.”

  Anne wrung her hands. “Are there many injured?”

  “A few scrapes and cuts.”

  “Of course I’ll tend them right away.”

  Calum grinned—almost laughed.

  “They do need my assistance do they not?”

  “Mostly no’, but I’ll have John ferret out the ones who do and ask him to bring them to ye.”

  “Very well.” Anne smoothed her hands over her skirts. “And in the interim, I’d be much obliged if you would determine how you’ll return me to England as quickly as possible.”

  Calum bowed, his eyes sparkling in the sun. “As you wish, milady.”

  He sauntered away, whistling some jaunty ditty, while Anne stifled the urge to giggle—for no reason. Queen’s knees, he toyed with her. He probably flaunted his good looks before every maiden who struck his fancy. She could risk her reputation by befriending him. Heading back to her stateroom, Anne vowed Calum MacLeod would never charm her into believing him well-mannered and chivalrous.

  Chapter Three

  Calum didn’t blame Lady Anne for holding him in low esteem. He would feel the same if he were in her predicament, though he wished it could be otherwise. He’d searched the seas for a woman like her. Upon his first glimpse, an inkling twitched at the back of his mind. Could she be the one? Bloody dreamer, he was.

  Over the past few days, he’d ducked out of sight whenever she made an appearance. Though he watched with great interest when she set her basket of herbs on the deck and tended his men as if they were her kin. He needed her off the ship before she made them all soft.

  After learning she was Wharton’s bride, he’d thought of little else but Anne. Memories of the terrified waif cowering in her stateroom under that wild mane of blonde curls made his pulse race, but he couldn’t assuage the grotesque image his mind conjured of Anne in Wharton’s arms. Fortunately, the thought put a damper on his lustful urges.

  However, he now feared for her, which was a miserable state of affairs for a privateer and his hostage, whom he must ransom. If only he could protect the lass.

  The baron’s legacy followed him. Wharton had been successful in the battle of Solway Moss back in 1542, when Calum was just a lad. His clansmen still spoke of it. The English raided Scotland and seized James V at Lochmaben. Even after the English council disapproved of Wharton’s action, he pushed on and burned Dumfries. There, he beat the Scots down and took many a noble Scotsman prisoner. Calum’s father had escaped with his life and little else. Wharton raided again in ’47, and two years ago he’d joined Northumberland against the Scots. Calum got his taste of battle then. Wharton took no prisoners—hung them all. Many MacLeods lost their lives, and bloody Wharton led the lot—her husband.

  Calum pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and stood at the helm. Twilight, he shed his thoughts and enjoyed a rare moment of calm seas and clear skies. They would reach Raasay on the morrow and his life would return to normal, running the keep, solving problems.

  Wearing a red gown with a low square neckline that accented her lily white breasts, Anne stepped onto the deck below and walked to the rail. His gut flew to his throat as if he’d jumped off a cliff. He considered ducking into the navigation room, but stopped.

  The breeze picked up her hair from under her veil, and golden strands fluttered proud as a flag. She moved with grace, reminding him of a swan swimming upon a still pool. Facing the sea, Calum admired the way her shoulders tapered to a waist so tiny, if he grasped it with both hands, his fingers would touch. He tapped them together, imagining how her waist would feel with his hands upon her.

  Bran tottered up, wearing that sling he’d become outrageously proud of, and engaged her in conversation. Calum rested his elbow on the rail and cradled his chin, completely enthralled. He watched Anne chat easily, comfortable with the lad. Though Calum held her captive, she maintained her regal refinement. If she was afraid, she had not shown it since that first night. He’d never encountered a woman like her—petite, totally in control, perceptive with unfaltering manners. How could she have become entangled with Wharton?

  Calum would send the ransom note once they arrived on Raasay. The missive would be carried to Edinburgh by one of his men and passed to an English runner there. Calum watched Anne, wishing he’d been six stone heavier and thirty or so years older—like bloody Wharton. What he wouldn’t do to lie in her arms for just one night. If only he could run his fing
ers through that tangled mane of silken tresses, caress the tops of her breasts with his lips. But a liaison with such a lady could never be. Calum blinked and shook his thoughts away.

  Soon she would know where his keep hid in the cove on Raasay. He couldn’t kill her nor could he keep her.

  If he ransomed Anne, she could tell Wharton how to find them, but Calum’s spies would see the blackguard coming days before he reached Raasay. That wouldn’t stop the battle, but it would give Calum a chance to prepare—mayhap even send the bastard to his grave.

  Would he have a chance with the widow when Wharton was dead? Baa. She thought him an outlaw. No highborn, beautiful woman like Lady Anne would give a man like him a second thought.

  Though he’d tried, he had yet to find a woman to share his keep—a strong, capable, beautiful woman. No one on Raasay had laid claim to his heart and his bed remained cold—lonely even.

  She turned and caught him staring. He bowed and his heart melted when she smiled—a smile with dimples that could light up the horizon. He half expected Lady Anne to turn up her pert little nose and head the other way.

  Before he could persuade himself otherwise, Calum pattered down the steps and stood beside her. She watched the sunset and her warmth pulled him close to her like a magnet.

  “’Tis beautiful,” she said when the sky shone with violet and pink, highlighted against the strips of clouds that sailed toward the ship.

  He inhaled. Her scent ever so feminine, Calum inclined his head to capture more of it. “Aye, milady.”

  She placed her hand on the rail. Again his reflexes took over and he rested his palm atop it. Calum expected her to snatch it away, but she did not. Her fingers lay cold under his touch, and he held his much warmer hand there as a comfort. They stood in silence as the sun dipped low, glowing orange-red on the horizon. He wanted to stand there forever—touching her. Barely breathing, he watched the sun disappear and held his hand still, unwilling to move it. Fresh air made pure by the salty sea filled his nostrils. The sounds of rigging flapping above, the sway of the ship—everything in this moment embodied perfection.