Captured by the Pirate Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  A large hand reached out and stopped the coronet before it flew over the rail and into the sea. Anne’s eyes trailed up the arm to a pair of broad shoulders. Calum wore his dark auburn hair loose. It shimmered with copper as the wind tossed stray strands across his face. White teeth flashing with his grin, he pushed his hair aside.

  The wind swirled in puffs across Anne’s skin, leaving a tingle behind. She reached for the rail to steady herself. Calum had shaved his beard. If anything, his smooth, square jaw brought more prominence to his raw masculinity. She wished she could reach out and brush her fingers across his unblemished skin.

  Why did he have to be so rakishly good looking? Curses, every time she looked at him, he seemed more handsome than the last. Her heart fluttered. She clasped her hand over it to quash her reaction.

  He clutched her coronet with both hands. Anne took a step toward him and blinked rapidly, the heat of her cheeks being the only warmth she’d felt that morning. She broke the tension by glancing down at her wayward headdress and held out her hand.

  He casually handed it to her. “’Tis a bit too dainty for a ship’s deck. Ye need a woolen bonnet in these waters.”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate a detour to the Hebrides when I packed.”

  He leaned against the rail with a hand on his hip. “We mean ye no harm.”

  “No?” Anne rubbed her upper arms. “And just how long will I suffer your hospitality?”

  “No longer than necessary—a month, mayhap two.”

  “I did not ask for this,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Nor did I, but you’re here just like that cold wind that’s cutting through yer dress.” His eyes trailed down the length of it and back up again. “We have naught but to make the most of things.”

  A fireball ignited in the pit of Anne’s stomach, flaring and melting away the cold. He looked at her with eyes an intensity that took her breath away. No man had ever made her insides sizzle and ache—as if he were the devil himself. Calum was a rake, a thief, and there was every possibility he would hang for his crimes. She would die if he ever discovered the effect he had on her sensibilities. She must cling to her resolve.

  She twisted the headpiece in her hands. “How long do you think you can carry on, plundering Her Majesty’s ships before you meet your end?”

  His face turned dark and he stepped toward her. “Ye do have a quick tongue for a noble lassie.” Anne inhaled—sea salt, musk and danger. He leaned in, his lips an inch from her ear. “I like that.”

  With a gasp, Anne faced him. From the flash of the gold flecks in his eyes, she knew she’d hit a nerve with her terse remark, but she wouldn’t allow him to think he’d charmed her with his devilish smile and powerful shoulders.

  “Rounding Raasay, Captain,” John called from the deck above.

  Calum rolled his arm in an exaggerated bow. “Lady Anne.” He marched up to the quarterdeck leaving her alone at the rail.

  Bran skittered past. “Come, milady. Ye’ll have a better view from the forecastle.”

  Bran tugged on her hand and led her forward up the steps to the bow of the ship. He ran to the forward rail and beckoned her with a wave of his arm. “There she is—Raasay.”

  The island loomed like a dark shadow wedged between the shores of the Scottish mainland and the Isle of Skye. Spindly birch trees jutted up between the rocks, bent as if old before their time. As the ship sailed south, the terrain became lusher with bracken ferns shaded by healthier trees than she’d seen to the north. Ahead, verdant pastureland touched the shore of a beach covered with layers of smooth stone.

  Bran pointed. “There it is—Brochel Castle.”

  Sitting atop a stony crag, the fortress walls extended skyward. Outer baily walls surrounded a single square donjon tower that peaked above a ring of mist, as if separated from the earth. Anne spotted guards between the crenel notches. A bell sounded, and the beach erupted with activity as people ran to the shore. Waving their arms, their indiscernible shouts carried away by the wind.

  “See the tower?” Bran yanked on her hand. “’Twas a broken shell when Calum came. We carted the stone from the north of the island and built it sturdy.”

  Anne admired the pride written across the boy’s face. “It sounds like hard work.”

  “Aye, and it took an eternity, but we’ve a fine keep now.”

  “Where did you live before the repairs?”

  “There are long houses at the back of the battlements. Some clan families still use them.”

  Anne stole a look across to the quarterdeck. Calum stood at the helm, taking charge of the ship’s anchoring. The men jumped to his every command without question. His hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene as if he were born to captain a ship. His gaze snapped up, meeting Anne’s. She quickly averted her attention back to Bran, giving a nervous laugh and hoping Calum didn’t think she’d been watching him all that time.

  Bran peeled away from the rail and danced around the deck. “We’ll have a grand gathering tonight!”

  The boy’s antics made her laugh. Anne wished she could celebrate, but a cold shiver shot up her spine instead. The dark grey walls of the castle were archaic, far less refined than Titchfield House. She fixed her gaze on the tower. Would Calum lock her in a room at the top until her ransom was arranged? Her head swooned. The tower was the highest point in sight. It precariously ruled over the pasture and beach as if it teetered on the brink of collapse.

  Anne crossed her arms and grasped her shoulders. She’d reached the next stage of her misadventure. Her gaze fell to the dark swells of water below. There was no need to dip her fingers in the sea to determine it was cold. The chill wafted up on the salty air.

  Watching the men lower a skiff, she let out a breath. She looked behind her at the mainland across the sound. Would she find a chance to steal away?

  Chapter Five

  Anne hurried back to her stateroom. Locking the door behind her, she pulled her treasure box out from under the mattress. Calum’s men would offload her trunks. God only knew what they would steal. She quickly removed her shillings and jewels and jammed them in her pockets.

  She jumped at a knock on her door.

  “Are ye ready to disembark, milady?”

  “A moment.” She closed the lid and fastened the buckles.

  When she opened the door, she couldn’t breathe. Clad in a kilt of fine wool with his red plaid draped across his shoulder and a massive claymore swinging from his belt, Calum looked the ideal laird. How could any woman not be enchanted by his blue eyes, glittering from a face so wickedly handsome? One eyebrow arched with the up-ticked corner of his mouth. The laird had thought to escort her ashore himself? Possibly his manners were genuine.

  “My lord, I thought you’d send Bran or John to collect me.”

  “And trust my most precious cargo to another?”

  Anne laughed at the devious smile dancing across his face. “Your charm is futile with me, laird Calum.” So she wished him to think.

  He held up her father’s dagger. “I believe this is yers.”

  She plucked it from his fingers, a confusing concoction of resentment, surprise and appreciation caught her off guard. “You trust me then?”

  “I think we can agree to a truce.” His muscles rippled as he stepped forward and offered his arm. “Are ye ready, milady?”

  She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He looked past her and assessed her trunks. “The men will see to it your things are delivered to your chamber.”

  “My chamber? And where might that be?”

  “I planned to have Mara prepare the guest room for you.”

  “Guest room?” She touched her hand to her chest. “I thought you might lock me in the tower.”

  “I would have you comfortable during yer stay.” He ran a finger across the gold brooch that clasped his plaid. “Unless ye would prefer to be treated as a prisoner.”

  “Are your guest quarters in the tower?”

 
“Two floors above the great hall. The clan guard occupies the floors above that.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

  When they walked onto the deck, Anne thought she would die when Bran held out a rope harness fashioned with a board barely wide enough for her to sit upon. Swallowing hard, she climbed into the contraption. Dangling from the web of rigging above, they lowered her to the skiff. Anne shut her eyes and swallowed her urge to scream. Didn’t they know she couldn’t swim? Where was the pier?

  Anne was sure the small boat would capsize as John Urquhart, Bran and Calum followed her, making use of the same harness as if they were swinging from a grand oak tree with lush grass beneath. When Calum took the seat beside her, Anne fastened both hands around his arm. When faced with an icy death in the Sound of Raasay, or clinging to a pirate, she threw her misgivings aside and opted for life.

  His muscle flexed beneath her grasp. Surely he was hewn from iron. “Yer no’ a seafaring lass are ye?”

  “I cannot swim, and even if I could, these skirts would drown me. Why have you no pier?”

  “I’ll have to add that to the agenda for discussion at the next clan meeting. It can follow healing the sick and feeding the children.”

  Anne detected a note of sarcasm in his voice, but nothing could have prepared her for the scene on the beach. Yes, she had seen poor people on the streets of Portsmouth and Southampton. She had even opened her kitchens to the local crofters at Titchfield House. None of her tenants starved. She had seen to it.

  Though there was laughing and dancing, the children were dirty and gaunt as if they hadn’t a decent meal all winter. Their clothing was tattered—hardly warm enough for the cold north. Anne wondered how they could be so happy. They seemed to be teetering on the brink of death.

  As they marched up the beach, an old man with a woolen blanket pulled about his shoulders coughed. Anne leaned in to study the pink rims around his eyes. He smiled, revealing a single tooth in the front of his mouth, and said something in Gaelic—spoken so fast, Anne couldn’t make it out. Pleased with himself, he threw back his head and laughed, bringing on a fit of raucous coughing.

  “What did he say?” Anne asked.

  She could have sworn Calum turned red right up to the tip of his ears. “He’s just a silly old man.”

  Anne noticed the others lining the shore were laughing too. “Well, whatever it was, they certainly thought it terribly funny.”

  Bran leaned toward her. “He asked Calum if he captured himself a wife.”

  Anne covered her mouth to hide her astonishment and hurried ahead. These people couldn’t possibly think the captain had a romantic interest in her. Heaven’s stars, she was a married woman. At a split in the path, she took the right.

  Calum cleared his throat behind her. “This way, milady.”

  Anne glanced over her shoulder to see who had noticed. Everyone. With quick step, she fell in line behind Calum, climbing a zigzag path up to the castle. The monstrous gates to the outer bailey were opened wide, welcoming them. Inside the castle grounds, people lined the path to the tower, shouting friendly cheers, reaching their hands out to touch Calum. Fingers strayed to Anne and brushed her velvet cloak. She gasped when tiny palms found their way to her waist. A toothy smile of a small girl gazed up, her eyes wide with wonder.

  Without a second thought, Anne picked her up. “What is your name?”

  “Isabelle.” She stuck a finger in her mouth. “Are ye a princess?”

  Anne whistled. “No. I’m merely a lady lost at sea.”

  Anne kissed Isabelle on the cheek and returned her to the outstretched arms of a woman who must have been her mother.

  Calum pushed through heavy oak doors into the great hall. A young woman with her hair tucked under a linen coif scurried into Calum’s outstretched arms “Fàilte mo laird—greetings my laird.”

  Anne understood that.

  “Ye must use your English, Mara.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “This is our guest, Lady Anne from, ah, Southampton. Take her to the guest room.”

  Mara pushed a stray lock of auburn hair under her white linen coif. “The guest room?”

  He winked. “Aye—ye ken—where the Chief of Lewis stays when he pays a visit.”

  Understanding lit up her face. “Of course.” Mara looped her arm through Anne’s—an inordinately familiar gesture for a serving maid. “Come with me, milady. We’ll make ye right comfortable.”

  Anne let Mara pull her up the winding stone staircase. A few inches shorter than Anne, Mara’s acorn eyes filled with excitement. “Ye must tell me what happened, milady. The whole castle was agog with news of your arrival afore ye made it up the hill.”

  “I’m afraid I was a bit of unexpected cargo on the Flying Swan.”

  “Oh me heavens.”

  “Well, at least the captain didn’t see fit to toss me overboard.”

  “Calum? He would never do that.” Mara brushed the idea away with a flick of her hand. “And how long do ye think ye might be staying?”

  “Until the ransom can be arranged with my husband.”

  “So you’re married, then?”

  “Yes. Somewhat.”

  “How can anyone be ‘somewhat’ married?”

  “I suppose I’m legally married—on paper, anyway.” Anne bit her bottom lip.

  Mara stopped and gaped. “That makes no sense at all.”

  Anne shouldn’t have spoken so freely with the maid. They’d barely met. But she asked so many questions, and her face looked as friendly as a kitten’s, reminding her of Hanna.

  Mara opened a door into a spacious chamber with a huge, but tattered mahogany bed with torn red canopy drapes. She gestured to a large stone hearth. “I stoked the fire when word came the ship rounded Skye.”

  “You did? I thought this was the guest room.”

  Wide eyed, Mara covered her mouth with both hands. “Apologies. I’m very bad with secrets.”

  “This is his chamber, is it not?”

  She cast her eyes downward. “Aye, milady.”

  “Where does Calum sleep when the Chief of Lewis visits?”

  “He takes one of the smaller chambers above. ’Tis no trouble—Please don’t tell him I told ye, he’d be awful sore with me.”

  “And where is the laird’s wife? Am I also imposing on her hospitality?”

  “Calum has no wife.”

  Anne turned to examine a tapestry, afraid Mara might be able to sense her thundering heartbeat. Studying the exquisite needlework of the family crest with a sun encircled by a leather belt, Anne could not fathom why her insides flipped upside down at the news. But the fact Calum was unwed was most interesting indeed. She ran her finger around the circle which bore the Latin words, Luceo Non Uro. “I shine not burn.”

  “Pardon?” Mara asked, turning down the bedclothes.

  Composure regained, Anne stepped to the other side of the bed to help—something she did with Hanna, though her mother never knew. “Is the laird promised?” She feigned her most blasé expression and fluffed the pillows while watching Mara out of the corner of her eye.

  “Nay. He’s been too busy trying to keep us fed. The cargo of the Flying Swan will be put to good use indeed.” She giggled. “When we saw ye clutching his arm in the skiff, we all thought ye were the one.”

  The one? Heaven preserve me.

  Mara walked to the door. “Is there anything else ye’ll be needing milady?”

  “Just my things. I suspect the men will bring them in due course.”

  “Very well. The dinner bell rings at dusk.”

  ***

  Calum couldn’t draw his eyes away from the graceful sway of Anne’s bottom as she ascended the stairs with Mara. When she’d clutched his arm in the skiff, he sensed a slight crack in her stately façade. He hadn’t expected his body’s response when she placed her hands upon him. He was certain she could hear his heart thundering against his ribcage. Blast it all, Calum should have asked her to sit beside Bran or anyone else.

>   He turned to his fair-haired younger brother, Norman, who held the keep during Calum’s absences. A few inches shorter, Norman closed his gaping mouth, shook his head and looked toward the ceiling. “Ye only have to look at her to ken she’s nobility. Ye want the entire English navy to come blow us to hell?”

  Calum hated the way his younger brother jumped to conclusions. “’Tis good to see ye too, Norman.” He led him and John aside. “We had no choice in the matter. The skiffs were launched before we found her.”

  “What do ye aim to do with the lass?”

  “Ransom her to her husband.”

  “What? Is he the Duke of Norfolk or something?”

  “Thomas Wharton—the Baron of Wharton after his attack on Scotland at Solway Moss.”

  Norman blanched. “Christ, Calum. Wharton? Do ye ken what he’ll do if he discovers it’s us who’ve absconded with his wife?”

  “Aye—no more than if the English learn it’s us who’ve plundered their ship.” Calum’s fists moved to his hips. “How much do ye think we should ask for her?”

  John leaned in and kept his voice low. “Too much and he’ll hunt us down for sure. Too little and he’ll no’ take us seriously.”

  “A thousand pounds.” Calum looked between the two men. Both frowned but neither objected. “A thousand pounds it is. I’ll write the note. John ye’ll leave on the morrow. In Urquhart plaid, no one south of Inverness will tie ye with the MacLeods.”

  John nodded. A pang of guilt crept up Calum’s nape. He knew John wanted to tarry longer with his new wife, but love would have to wait. Cousin and loyal friend, John would swim the frigid Sound of Raasay and back if Calum asked. As an Urquhart, he was the best man for the job—and they all just might return Lady Anne to her life without getting their necks stretched on English gallows.

  Friar Patrick MacSween pushed his way into the hall, the hemp rope wrapped around his portly waist swinging against his brown robe. “Praise the good Lord ye’ve returned in one piece.”