Captured by the Pirate Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  Thank heavens he’d returned so quickly. Calum’s brows pinched together and he held up the eagle. Sitting up, the bedclothes neatly tucked around her waist, Anne beckoned him forward. “Thank you, thank you. Bring him here, please.”

  Calum grinned like a boy on Christmas morn. The downy eagle chirped and stretched its wings. Anne held out her arms. “Aw, what a sweet little biscuit.”

  Calum set the cage beside her and dragged a chair over to the bed. “I think he’s hungry.”

  “We must feed him. Have the cook grind up some meat and mix it with a bit of water.” Anne made kissing sounds. “Hello, little darling. We’re going to turn you into a fierce hunter.” He chirped back at her as if he liked the idea. Anne opened the cage and stroked his feathers.

  “What should we call him?” Calum asked.

  “It could be a girl.”

  “Can ye tell?”

  Anne lifted one of its little legs. “Not yet.” She smiled at Calum. “How about Swan, since we met on the Flying Swan?”

  “I wouldn’t think ye’d want to be reminded of that.”

  “Why not?” She studied his face and smiled at his worried frown. The feared laird was not so fierce now she’d come to know him. The thought that their time together would not last tugged on her heart. She allowed her eyes drift down with a sigh.

  Calum sprang to his feet. “Are ye in pain?”

  Anne forced a smile. “No. I’m sorry. I was just thinking how difficult it will be when it comes time for me to leave.” She shook her head. “Isn’t that daft? Here I’m your prisoner and I am ever so enjoying learning about life in the far reaches of Scotland. You must think me a fool.”

  Calum resumed his seat and grasped her hand. “Nay, milady. It has been very pleasant to have ye here. Everyone thinks so.”

  “Aside from Norman.”

  “Aye, well perhaps no’ me brother, but he’ll come around.”

  “Probably not before I leave.” Anne returned her attention to the fledgling and reached her hand into the cage. “Come here, darling. You’ll feel safer if you nestle with me.” She cupped the baby raptor to her bosom and Calum watched her with a faraway glint to his eye. “Would you be able to bring his food, please? I’d like to give it to him and start the bond.”

  In no time, Calum returned with the soupy meat mixture, and Anne ladled it into Swan’s mouth with her fingernail.

  “’Tis a bit tedious.”

  “Yes, but I’ve nothing better to do.” She cradled the bird like a babe. “And he needs a gentle hand to care for him.” When she stopped feeding the bird, Swan gave her a peck on the wrist. Anne jerked her hand away. “He’s nearly ready to eat on his own this one—almost drew blood.”

  “Perhaps ye should wear falconing gloves.” Calum leaned in and examined her hand. He rubbed the spot where Swan had nipped her then held it to his lips. “I never want to see ye hurt again, milady.”

  Their stares connected and held. He cared. The swelling in Anne’s heart could not possibly be love. But this man had come to mean so much to her. How had she let that happen? She ached to bring Calum’s head to her breast and hold it there too. And though Swan settled into the crook of her arm and slept, she wanted more from Calum. Riding back to Brochel, he’d held her in his arms and she never had really lost consciousness. It felt heavenly to be surrounded by his powerful frame. She’d closed her eyes and wished she could stay there forever.

  Anne clamped her fists to her head when the hole in her heart jerked her back to her plight. The daughter of the Earl of Southampton do as she pleased? Never. Her life had never been hers and never would be.

  Mara entered the chamber with a goblet. “I have the draught the friar prepared.”

  “Must I drink it?”

  Calum reached out and grasped her hand. “It will help ye sleep.”

  Anne closed her eyes—her life would be hers in this moment. “Set it beside the bed. I shall take it when I’m ready to sleep.”

  Mara pursed her lips, but did as Anne asked.

  “Thank you.” It was a small win, but one she needed.

  Calum stayed beside her bed. In the chamber where no one watched, he was tender and gentle. Anne saw none of the hardened pirate who sparred with his men every morning and plundered ships to bring back food for his people. Next to her was a strong man with crystal blue eyes that looked at her as if she were the most beautiful woman on earth. She would take this moment and lock it in her heart for all eternity.

  Chapter Twelve

  For a moment, Calum wondered if he’d gone to heaven during the night, but when he opened his eye, Anne was singing. He listened to her sweet, bell-like voice. She reached for a high note and hit it with such clarity, the back of his neck tingled.

  Rolling to his side, he pulled a pillow over his head. Did she have to sing like an angel too? He knew he’d spent far too long beside her bed last night. Mother Mary, the reaction he’d had when she fell was not normal, no matter how he rationalized it. How had he allowed himself to become enraptured with the baroness? Lady Anne had bewitched him with her charm.

  Calum dressed, berating himself for lusting after his prisoner. What kind of low beasty man did that make him?

  He had to get away from the keep. It was time he paid a visit to The Golden Sun.

  After Calum rowed out to the ship, Norman stood with his fists on his hips and watched him climb aboard. “Come to visit me in exile?”

  “Come to see the progress ye’ve made on the rebuilding, little brother,” Calum grumbled.

  Norman swept his arm and gestured across the deck. “Behold. The damage from the cannon blasts has been fully repaired.”

  Calum walked over and stomped on the new decking. It held fast. “You’re a good hand when yer sober.”

  “Aye? I’ve been thinking about that a bit.”

  “Oh?”

  “The first few nights on the ship, I drank everything in sight. One morning Robert came aboard while I puked me guts over the rail.”

  “That’s a common enough sight.”

  “It’s no’ the fact he saw that got me riled. It’s what he mumbled under his breath.” Norman’s hands fell to his side. “He said every family’s got to have a parasite—a failure.”

  Calum reached out his hand, but Norman batted it away. “No. I dunna need yer sympathy. Since that day, me lips haven’t touched a dram of whisky and I’ll be damned if they ever will again.” Norman looked him in the eye. “I dunna like the man I become when I drink, and neither does anyone else.”

  Blinking, Calum forced back the sting rimming his eyes. He hadn’t shed a tear since he was a babe and he wasn’t about to now. “’Tis good to hear.” Everywhere he looked, he saw signs of repairs. “And with what ye’ve achieved, I imagine ye’ll make a fine sea captain.”

  Norman nodded toward the captain’s cabin. “Come, I want to show ye something.”

  Calum stepped inside and noted the MacLeod tartan covering the bed—a fine improvement over the English quilt. A drawing on the table caught his eye. He lifted it and studied the artwork. “This is remarkable.” Norman had sketched the ship with its new additions.

  “Do ye like the lettering for The Golden Sun?”

  “Aye. I think ye missed yer calling. Ye should have been an artist.”

  “Baa. But Robert says ’tis easier to work with me prints than with the original drawings.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “So what news have you?”

  Calum set the drawing on the table. “We’ve finished the work on the chamber beside mine.”

  Norman ran his finger along his plaid. “I suppose ye had to fashion a place to sleep—so the lady’s still here?”

  “Aye.”

  “The sooner we’re rid of her, the better.”

  The hackles on the back of Calum’s neck pricked. “Ye ken, she could have acted like a spoiled heiress and hidden in me chamber, but no, she’s worked with Mara and the children. The keep has
never looked so fine with everything in its place. She’s organized the women too, and there’s no more bellyaching.”

  “Listen to yerself speak. Ye defend her like she’s yer missus.” Norman threw his hands up. “She embodies our vilest enemy.”

  Calum clenched his fist and pulled it back. Norman flinched. Hell. He didn’t want to hit him, but Norman’s words struck a chord. Worse, Calum knew he was right. He’d ask Lady Anne to marry him on the morrow if she weren’t already wed. Calum dropped his hand and stretched his fingers. “I worry about what this ransom business will bring on our heads. But John will return and the lady will be gone soon enough.”

  “That will be a blessing.”

  Calum raised his chin. “Until then, I expect ye to treat her with respect—if and when ye see her.”

  Norman gave an exaggerated bow. “Aye, yer lairdship.”

  ***

  John Urquhart sat in the shadows of the Sheep Heid Inn and nursed a tankard of ale. His uncle, Sir Tomas, had recommended Malcolm Elliot, but John felt uneasy trusting a Lowlander to deliver the missive. The man had never looked at him straight in the eye. John hated trusting such a man.

  If he’d had it his way, John would have delivered the missive himself. He could have played the part of an Englishman, and Calum knew it. John loved Calum like a brother, but the laird’s only weakness was his love for his people and reluctance to risk their lives.

  Calum didn’t want John riding into England because of the danger. Now he’d been waiting for Elliot’s return for a week. If he didn’t come soon, the galley John had waiting in the Firth of Forth would set sail for Inverness without him. Then he’d be in Edinburgh with no plan for a quick escape. That was every bit as dangerous as riding into Wharton’s lair and playacting the part of a country messenger.

  A buxom barmaid brushed up against him. “Ye’ve been holding up here for days. What do ye say ye take me up to yer room and I’ll ease the tension under the laces of your trews?”

  He nudged her away. “I’ve a bonny wife at home who keeps me fires warm. Run along, wench.” John adjusted the damnable trews. He didn’t dare wear his colors in Edinburgh, but he’d be mighty glad when he could throw off the itchy leather trousers he’d been wearing since he arrived.

  The barmaid huffed away, clearing John’s view of the door.

  He sat erect.

  Elliot’s dark eyes stared at him from across the room. Eye contact. John knew something was amiss. He reached under the table and slid the dirk from his belt.

  John stood and headed toward the back door, but Elliot raced up and caught him by the arm. “Where are you going? I’ve a missive for you.”

  Elliot shoved the note into John’s gut and took off at a run.

  The door of the inn burst open and a heavyset man barreled through, aiming a musket at John’s head. John dove under the table just as the slow match fired. Mayhem erupted. Tables toppled to the shouts and screams of the patrons. John drew his sword and fled toward the bar. The big man ran forward and slammed the gun barrel into the wood within inches of John’s head.

  He ducked aside and rolled up over the top of the bar.

  “What have you done with my wife?”

  Wharton.

  John eyed the cowering bartender who inclined his head toward the back room. Wharton drew his sword. John dashed into the room, praying he’d find a door.

  Two barmaids hovered in the corner, next to the servant’s entrance. Shoving a table aside, John bolted for the rear door. His hand reached the knob when the table scraped the floor behind him. John swung back, his blade hissing through the air, but Wharton deflected the strike.

  Wharton lunged. John pulled the latch, and the two careened out into the alley. The stench of rotten food and piss swamped John’s senses. Falling, his back jarred against the cobblestones. Wharton’s bulk crushed atop him.

  “Where is she?” the baron growled.

  John wrenched his arm free and slammed his dirk into Wharton’s shoulder. The big man reeled back, squealing like a pig. Footsteps slapped the pavement. Soldiers. John slipped out from under Wharton and jumped the fence, landing on a stone terrace. He scanned for his options. Only one door—he pushed inside and ran across someone’s kitchen, then the parlor. Servants squawked. John eyed the door opposite him. In three steps, he crashed through it and dashed onto the street.

  A pony pulling a cart laden with barrels trotted past. John jumped onto it.

  Over his shoulder, the driver shouted, “You can’t do that. Get off, ye maggot.”

  John leapt over the barrels and pressed his dirk under the driver’s chin. “Take me to the pier and I’ll spare ye. And if you’re fast about it I may even give ye some coin.”

  The driver bobbed his head. John spotted a blanket stuffed at the back of the seat and wrapped it over his shoulders and head.

  He took a chance and peered down the street behind. Foot soldiers crisscrossed the lane, but they hadn’t spotted him. Not yet.

  ***

  During Anne’s confinement, Calum had a mews built in the garden—an aviary of quiet solitude where Swan would feel safe. After three day’s rest, her headache had eased. Anne’s ankle was nearly healed and she could step without limping, thank heavens. If she showed any sign it still pained her, Friar Pat would have restricted her to quarters for yet another unbearable three days.

  Since Bran had helped Calum find Swan, the lad would learn to train him and Bran met Anne beside the mews. Anne slid her hand into the falconry glove and reached for the leather jesses she’d secured around Swan’s ankles. The bird latched his claws around her finger and she fed him a small piece of meat, humming her lullaby.

  Wide-eyed, Bran watched the bird. “He likes it.”

  “Yes, but you must sing to him. Your song is your call.” She ran her hand along Swan’s back. “Do you know the Gaelic lullaby, Sofi Linge Valdal?”

  “Aye, what Highlander doesna, but I’m surprised ye do.”

  “My family’s falconer was Scottish born. ’Twas his falconry lullaby, and ’tis what I’ve been singing to Swan.” Anne swallowed back her tears. She was already attached to the eagle, blast it all.

  “Why so sad, milady?”

  She gave the bird another morsel. “When I leave, you’ll have to carry on with his training.”

  “Ye need to teach me.”

  “Yes.” Anne’s whisper was barely audible. If she had to pick anyone on the island to work with Swan, it would be Bran. He had a gentle and optimistic nature. “Come, let’s see if he’s ready to fly.”

  Bran sang Anne’s lullaby with a clear tenor as they walked down to the beach. Anne’s spirits soared. Bran would indeed make a good substitute. She fastened the leash to Swan’s jesses. “Are you ready?”

  Bran studied the bird. “I think ye should ask him…Do ye think he’s ready?”

  “We’ll find out.” One reason she wanted to train on the beach was the bird’s lead wouldn’t catch in anything if he failed to fly. Swan’s wings had developed enough he could glide down from her arm, but she would never forgive herself if he got hurt during his first flying lesson.

  She held up her arm and looked at Bran. The boy grimaced as if something terrible were about to happen. Anne laughed and tossed her hand to the wind. Swan flapped his wings and squawked like an adolescent boy, but the breeze caught his wings and he soared upward with Anne holding the ten foot lead.

  “I cannot believe it.” Bran ran beneath Swan’s flapping wings and watched the bird with amazement.

  Anne sang the lullaby then Swan resumed his perch on her forearm.

  “How’d ye do that?”

  “’Tis the song. Associate it with food and he’ll come to it every time.”

  Anne let Swan fly a few more times and then cast her eyes to Bran. No matter how much she wanted the eagle to be hers, she knew it was best for the bird if she trained another to be his falconer.

  “Swan comes to the song, to you, because he associates you with foo
d, but once he can hunt his own prey, he’ll come to you because you represent his home. You will be his lord, Bran, and he will feel safe with you.”

  Anne took off her glove and handed it to the boy. “You give it a try.”

  ***

  By the time a month passed, dark circles had taken up residence under Calum’s eyes and Friar Pat kept trying to give him a tincture to “help with that digestive problem.” The kindhearted holy man finally stopped needling when Calum told him the problem was a wee bit lower than his gut.

  Lady Anne had become more irresistible by the day. The only thing keeping his temper in check was his daily sparring session with his guard. At least he could work off the tension he built during the night without drawing suspicion to his misplaced yearnings.

  The rain stayed at bay for the Beltane Fire Festival and Calum’s spirits soared. All candles and lamps in the castle had been snuffed and Calum would have the honor of lighting the bonfire of fertility.

  On the beach, Calum supervised the men raising the maypole and the women adorned the wreath of flowers that encircled it. Of all the holidays, this was his favorite. The haddock had been running strong in the sound. They would feast on good fish, mussels and crab.

  Mara looked up from her work at the wreath then scurried over to him. “The wood’s dry, ready for the bonfire. The fish are cleaned and soaking in the hold, m’laird.” She pointed to the net off the shore used to keep the seafood fresh.

  Calum patted her shoulder. “Excellent. Ye have everything organized.”

  “Lady Anne has taught me well.”

  “Then it has been a blessing to have her with us.”

  “I miss John so terribly.” Mara frowned. “But I dunna want her to leave us. She is such a fine lady and a pleasure to be around. I never thought an English woman could be as sweet as she.”

  “We will all miss her, I’m afraid.”

  Calum looked up the hill. With the day’s work done, the clan men and women were clamoring down to the beach. Bran had hold of Lady Anne’s hand, hurrying her along as if they were late for a wedding. Friar Pat scuttled down the hill after them with his robes flapping in the wind. Calum and Mara chuckled and moved to greet them.