Captured by the Pirate Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  Anne could barely focus her eyes, but the keep was in reach at last. Massive grey walls towered above, but the lines seemed jagged. She blinked. A portion of the battlements had crumbled as if hit by cannon shot. She limped to the archway. No gates secured it. She turned full circle, listening. No voices, no horse hooves, no clang of a blacksmith—she heard nothing but the call of a willow warbler on the breeze.

  A lead ball sank to the pit of her stomach, but she proceeded through the gates. The sun had set and little light remained. She could not go on without food. A burnt out shell of a once great stronghold enveloped her. Anne clutched her arms across her chest. Had Wharton driven all good Scots away from this place?

  Her entire body ached. A sharp pain jarred her ankle. With a cry of utter helplessness, she dropped to the ground. She had to reach to Raasay. She must find food, but she had no weapon and no trained falcon to pluck a pigeon from the air.

  Anne crouched on her knees and cradled her head in her hands. With every sob, Anne fell deeper into despair. She had been traveling for days. Dear God in Heaven, help me.

  ***

  Calum opened his eyes. He rested upon the comfort of a familiar bed and ran his fingers along the crisp clean sheets. He pushed up with a shaky arm. This bed was not only familiar, it was his. How had he gotten here? His arm gave way and he tried to roll onto his back. Sharp pain brought back the memory of the angry tongues of a cat ‘o nine tails tearing into his flesh.

  Hunger clawed at his gut. He licked his lips with a gritty tongue. Water. He heard a rustle by the hearth. “Water.” The word grated like a rasp in his throat.

  “Are ye awake, laird?” Friar Pat’s deep voice held a note of fear.

  “Water,” Calum said, louder this time.

  In seconds, the friar held a goblet to his lips. Calum gulped the liquid—not water but mead.

  “This is me own brew. ’Twill help ye come round, m’laird.”

  Thick sweetness coated his tongue and throat. Calum nodded toward the empty goblet. “More.”

  The friar held up his hand. “Ye must go slow. Ye’ve been fevered for days.”

  “Food.”

  “I’ll bring ye some broth.”

  “Broth?” With the mead coating his throat, his voice became clearer. Calum struggled to sit but his limbs trembled. “I want food—meat.”

  The friar patted his exposed shoulder. “We’ll start with broth. If ye can keep that down, we’ll add some porridge.”

  Left alone, Calum grumbled and muscled himself to a sitting position. He tugged up the pillows behind him and lay against them. Hissing through his teeth, he tested the tender flesh on his back. A hundred knives sliced angrily, but once he settled on the goose down, the pain dulled.

  Friar Pat bounded through the door, clutching a bowl, with wide-eyed John and Mara behind him.

  “Calum, you’re sitting up?” Mara dashed to the bedside. “How is yer back?”

  “Feels like a nest of stinging honey bees have taken up residence.” Calum barely recognized his own voice.

  The friar held up a spoon of broth.

  Calum grabbed it. “I can feed meself.”

  The three exchanged exasperated shrugs, and Pat handed Calum a spoon, but held the bowl. Calum’s hand shook and ladled the broth into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. For all he knew, he hadn’t. “How long have I been abed?”

  John stepped in beside the friar. “It has been three days since the ship dropped anchor in the bay.”

  Calum rubbed his head. “Six days since we left the firth?”

  “Aye.”

  “Any word of Wharton?”

  “Nay. But blue tunics lined the shore as the wind picked up the sails in Solway.”

  Calum swallowed his last spoonful of broth. “Wharton will come after us. Anne gave away the keep to spare me.”

  Mara gasped. “She told them of Raasay?”

  Calum pushed his hair back from his face. “She did it to save me from the lash.”

  “Little good that did,” John said.

  “I’m alive, am I no’?” He sliced his hand through the air. “Dunna think ill of her. She is in her own hell, living under the roof of a monster. I never should have ransomed her.”

  Calum looked at the solemn faces of his closest clansmen. “Have ye sent out the spies?”

  “Aye.”

  “Have ye called for reinforcements?”

  “Do ye think we need them?”

  “If I ken Wharton, he will attack us with a fleet of English warships.” Calum leaned forward and grimaced. Mara adjusted his pillows. “Send Norman to Lewis. Have him tell Ruairi all of the Hebrides are in peril. If we do not stop Wharton, he will take all until we all fall under his tyranny.”

  John nodded and took his leave. With a grunt, Calum leaned back and closed his eyes. “I need me strength. Bring me meat.”

  “Aye, we will but first must check yer dressing.” The friar tugged on Calum’s shoulder and pulled him forward. “Tis a miracle ye are sitting up, m’laird. I thought it would be days yet afore ye could do that.”

  “It must be yer potent mead.” Calum grimaced as the bandages pulled against his tender flesh. “How is it looking?”

  “I think yer wounds need to air a bit. Have another tot of me mead and I’ll bring ye some porridge.”

  “Porridge and a slab of meat.”

  Calum guzzled another goblet of mead and lay on his side with the bedclothes around his hips. The cool air on his back eased the sting and the friar’s mead numbed his head. Mara and Pat closed the door but Mara’s voice drifted through the wood. “’Tis a good sign he’s being cantankerous.”

  He’d be a fair bit more cantankerous if they kept treating him like an invalid. He needed to heal quickly. He closed his eyes and saw Anne looking like a goddess in her red dress, her long tresses glistening gold in the sun. With vivid clarity he recalled the slap Wharton had delivered across her face. If only his hands had not been bound to the post, Calum would have murdered the bastard right there in the town square. Wharton’s slap was no tap, but a vicious hit that had echoed across the bailey walls—and in a public forum. What was that man capable of behind closed doors? Anything.

  Calum pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, blocking the unwanted images of the brutish man forcing himself upon Lady Anne. With a grunt, he pushed up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He took his weight onto his feet. Wobbling, his legs gave out. He fell back onto the bed and roared as his bare back swiped against the woolen blanket. Where is my meat? I cannot lie here like a sickly old man. Our very existence is in peril.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The clamor of horse hooves roused Anne from her bout of self-pity. Long shadows in the abandoned keep stretched across the open courtyard. Anne wanted to rush out and cry for help, but remembering the English patrol, she scrambled for the protection of the cavernous walls.

  “Fresh tracks,” A bass voice echoed through the archway.

  “Looks like he’s injured—he’s using a staff.”

  Anne tensed at the singing hiss of swords sliding from their scabbards. Her staff lay in the center of the courtyard. She hid behind a crumbling column. Metal horseshoes clanged against the cobblestones. She held her breath. The first rider appeared with his sword at the ready. Anne squinted. With a grey beard, he wore a blue and dark green kilt. A Scot.

  Taking a deep breath, she rose limped into the light, holding her hands up in surrender. “I am seeking sanctuary.”

  Five stout men rode in behind the old man, who reined his horse to a stop. He gaped down at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. Anne pulled off her bonnet and released her braid. The man wrapped his fingers around his beard and tugged.

  Anne surveyed the astonished faces and swallowed. “This is Scotland, is it not?”

  “Aye.”

  How fortunate the big fellow had found his tongue. Anne took a step forward. “Can you help me?”

  “That depe
nds.” He sheathed his sword and dismounted, sizing her up as he walked near. Anne kept her hands out. With a weathered face, dark circles sagged under the Scot’s guarded grey eyes. When he got within a few feet of her, he stopped and folded his arms. “You’re English and a woman.”

  Anne’s fingers began to tremble and she clasped her hands together. “Yes. I need to find Calum MacLeod on the isle of Raasay.” Her stomach growled and she clenched her hands tighter.

  “Raasay, ’tis up near Skye, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a fair bit off course.” He scratched his beard. “What do ye want with the likes of a MacLeod?”

  “I’m running from the English—he’s running from the English. They captured him in Carlisle and nearly killed him—sentenced him to be hanged, drawn and quartered—and then he escaped. I’m trying to find him.” Anne’s mind raced ahead. She sounded flippant as if her story were contrived.

  The Scot waved his hands across his body. “You’re speaking gibberish. Are ye running from those English scouts we saw yonder?”

  Anne hung her head. “I think so.”

  The big man knitted his brows and to took another step toward her when a voice called from the archway. “English soldiers approach.”

  In one motion, the Scot drew his sword and pointed toward the remains of a small building. “Hide in the chapel.”

  Anne nodded and touched the old man’s elbow. “What is your name, friend?”

  “Rorie Douglas. Now be gone with ye.”

  Anne hobbled into the chapel and found a narrow window that opened to the courtyard. Rorie and his men scattered into the shadows as the last sliver of sunshine fell to the west and the moon cast an eerie glow over the ruin.

  Horse hooves echoed outside the keep, but this time they scraped and grated in an unwelcomed screech. A dozen or more soldiers cautiously walked their horses through the archway.

  “That’s far enough, Sassenach.” Rorie’s voice echoed between the stone walls, but Anne couldn’t be sure where it came from. The soldiers stopped, their helmeted heads turning with wary, searching eyes.

  Anne recognized the captain of the guard—she’d seen him in Carlisle. He held up his hand. “We mean you no harm. We’re searching for an Englishwoman.”

  Anne held her breath. Please do not repeat my title.

  “She could be dressed as a man,” the captain continued. “We found tracks leading this way…”

  An uneasy silence pealed through the air. Would Rorie reveal her presence?

  “What is she to you?” Rorie delivered the words with an unmistakable lilt of curiosity.

  “She’s wanted for treason against Lord Wharton.”

  A fireball ignited in Anne’s gut. Treason? For what? For jumping out a window?

  The captain spun his horse in a circle. “You wouldn’t want to cross Lord Wharton—not after what he did to your keep.”

  Anne gasped. The baron was responsible for this burnt-out shell? With not another moment to think, Rorie and his men sprang from the shadows, bellowing like wild animals.

  The English captain reached for his sword but an arrow skewered him in the chest. Anne looked up to the wall walk and spotted an archer. He made swift work of leveling the odds while Rorie and his men met the English in a mounted battle of swords. Rorie rode his horse into the center of the skirmish, fighting two at once. Blood spewed, a hand severed, the helmeted head of a soldier flew to the turf and rolled. The dead man’s stunned horse galloped wildly out the stronghold archway.

  Anne clutched her satchel against her chest as she watched the deadly mayhem in the moonlight. She clenched her chattering teeth. A fallen sword lay twenty feet from the chapel. She inched toward the door and peeked around.

  Rorie’s booming voice exploded over her. “They’re fleeing lads. Give chase!”

  In seconds, the Scots raced through the archway and Anne was left alone with nearly a dozen dead men. She tiptoed out of the chapel and grasped the sword. Much heavier than it looked, the weapon scraped across the cobblestones. The captain moaned. She snapped her head up and stared. The arrow pierced through his chest and he gurgled as if air escaped through the wound.

  Dragging the sword, Anne moved toward him, wary. He inclined his head toward her. “I knew y-you were here.”

  Something in his throat caught as if he had more to say. Anne took another step toward him and bent closer.

  “Whore.”

  Anne stood motionless. Is that what he thought, or did he speak the baron’s words? He was a pawn to a tyrant, a paid soldier carrying out his duty—dying for it.

  She didn’t want anyone killed for her sake, even if they did take Lord Wharton’s blood money. She kneeled beside him and bowed her head. “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost…”

  The soldier’s eyes went vacant. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Anne finished her prayer choked back a dry heave burning her throat. She doubled over as the retch she’d strained to swallow racked her body with burning convulsions of yellow bile.

  Her shoulders tensed as the clap of shod horse hooves clicked on the cobblestones.

  “Finished him for me, did ye?”

  Anne jerked up to meet the old man’s battle worn glare.

  He reined his horse beside her. “We need to have a talk, you and I.”

  Anne wiped her hand across her mouth and drew in a heavy breath. “As you wish.”

  He dismounted and reached in his saddlebag. “When was the last time ye ate?”

  Her hand shook as she brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “One…no, two days.”

  “Come, sit with me.”

  Anne looked into his eyes. They weren’t the dark predator eyes she had seen at the inn in Fort William. Yes, in the moonlight they were dark and stern, but she saw something else, something gentler, and prayed it was kindness.

  She followed him to a fallen stone column and sat. He opened a parcel of cloth and pulled out an oatcake. “Eat.”

  Anne salivated at the smell of oats and a hint of bacon fat. Her eyes drifted to the parcel and caught sight of a few rashers before he folded the cloth again. She bit off a chunk, trying to be as ladylike as possible.

  “What is your name?”

  “Anne Wriothesley.” She used her maiden name. That wasn’t a lie.

  Rorie drummed his fingers, repeating the name and then appeared to realize who she was. “You’re the daughter of an earl? Southampton, no?”

  “A younger, insignificant daughter.”

  “What are ye doing all the way up here in man’s clothing, accused of treason?”

  “’Tis a long story.”

  Rorie spread his big palms. “I’m no’ going anywhere.”

  She’d tell him everything except the part about being married to Baron Wharton. Her mind raced. How was she going to leave that out? “If you consider jumping out of a window treason, then I am guilty. If not, a very nasty man thinks he can ruin everyone’s lives including yours and mine.”

  “That would be Thomas Wharton?”

  “Yes.” She began with the Flying Swan with the twist being she had boarded the ship to wed Wharton, not that she was already legally married. A weight lifted from her shoulders as she told it all, the time on Raasay, the fact Calum didn’t want to take her to Carlisle, but would not lay claim to another man’s contract to wed.

  Rorie removed his bonnet and scratched his head. “I’d have staked me claim with a lassie as beautiful as you.”

  “Calum thought he was doing the right thing—until they captured him and stretched him on the rack.” She shuddered. “They stripped him naked, took him to the square and lashed him until his back streamed with blood.”

  Rorie grimaced and Anne continued with the story—her near rape by Wharton and Calum’s escape.

  “I guarantee if Calum MacLeod is on the run from the baron, there will be many more Englishmen than these.” He gestured to the poor souls his men were hauling out for burial
. “Ye say his keep’s on Raasay?”

  “Yes, and Wharton will stop at nothing to see him dead.”

  “Wharton is a smart man. ’Tis why me home’s in such a shambles. But if I were he with the House of Lords behind me, I’d no’ ride to Raasay. I’d sail.”

  A twinge of hope made Anne’s heart stutter. “Would you like to see Wharton dead?”

  “Aye, I dream every night of sending that bastard to his grave. He earned his bloody barony at me family’s expense.” Rorie cleared his throat. “Excuse me for the course language, milady.”

  Anne pointed to her trews. “If you will excuse me for my unladylike dress.”

  “I now understand your need for discretion.”

  Anne stood and faced him. “If you take me to Applecross, we can row a skiff to Raasay, and when Wharton shoots English cannons at Brochel Castle, we shall be there to send him to his death.”

  He scratched his beard and shook his head. “It sounds bloody tempting. The lady wife might throw up a bit of a fuss though.”

  Anne reached for her satchel. “I can pay you for my passage—and a horse. I’m afraid I’ve injured my ankle and it’s in sore need of rest.” Careful not to let him see her pouch, she searched inside with her fingers and pulled out two silver shillings.

  “Now why didna ye say ye could pay in coin?” Chuckling, he grasped her hand and folded her fingers over the money. “Ye keep it, lass. I’d pay you just for a chance to bury me claymore in that thieving bastard’s heart.”

  ***

  Wharton stood at his window and watched Master Denton canter toward the citadel with a line of mounted soldiers following. With sharp tugs on each finger, the baron cracked his knuckles. The discomfort it caused cemented his obsession. He lay awake at night imagining new ways he could torture the Scot. Wharton licked his lips. He should have sliced off the thieving bastard’s manhood when he had the chance.

  Thomas yanked so hard, his thumb slipped out of the socket. With a rub, he slid it back into place. Anne would still be here if Wharton hadn’t toyed with the Scot—Calum she’d called him. But Wharton had wanted to draw out the bastard’s pain, show his new wife no one crossed him. Ever. Then the bitch had escaped and made a mockery of their marriage. He would have filed for an annulment, but that wasn’t necessary. He’d be free when she was dead.