Captured by the Pirate Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  Where was the damnable Captain of the Guard? They’d set out days ago and still hadn’t returned with her. Wharton could not believe the incompetence surrounding him. Must he do everything himself? That onion-eyed Captain had convinced him to stay behind. Fool.

  Wharton clenched his fists. Did the Scot have men waiting to spirit her away? The bastard had tricked him, taken his money—and now stolen and debauched his wife. The soldiers could follow her trail all the way to Raasay. Good. There would be more Englishmen up there to fight when he arrived. Yes, he would sail into the frigid hell they called Scotland and take back what was rightfully his and more.

  A black cavern swelled in his chest and he rubbed his fingers across the pommel of his sword. Killing them both would bring him satisfaction. Once they were dead, the hate which consumed him would ebb. He could then return to Alnwick and enjoy the comfort of Northumberland’s hospitality—and a serving wench or two.

  He stared out the window. Denton had yet to fail him, but this was unacceptable. The man should have returned days ago. Wharton would severely dock his pay. He blamed Denton for the Scot’s escape. How could he allow the enemy to walk into Carlisle, overcome the guard and ride out the gates?

  Approaching from the citadel, Denton slowed his cohort to a trot and pulled to the halt in front of the King’s Head Inn. Wharton barreled out to confront him.

  “What the blazes took you so long?”

  Denton’s gaunt scowl did nothing to intimidate. He was the Baron of Wharton with the House of Lords behind him. The ass dismounted and sauntered toward him. “Shall we discuss this in your rooms?”

  “I want an answer now. You’ve been gone for ten days. It should have taken you no more than two.”

  Denton removed his feathered cap and slid his hand across his black hair. “Would you have preferred to mount your attack in a land-hugging pinnace, sporting a single cannon at her stern, or wait for an eighteen-gun racing galleon fresh out of the Maryport dockyard?”

  Wharton narrowed his gaze. He would not be made into a fool.

  Denton gestured to a sizable man in a velvet cloak. By his embroidered velvet doublet, he had to be a knight or higher, else Thomas would take him into custody for breaking sumptuary laws. He squinted at the man. A hanging on the morrow might satisfy his thirst for blood.

  “May I introduce Sir Edward Gilman, captain of the White Lion.”

  Wharton ran his gaze over Sir Edward from head to toe. The public hanging would have to wait. “A knighted captain?”

  Sir Edward bowed. “Yes, my lord. May I be the first to offer my condolences for this act of abomination against your person. Rest assured the queen’s navy stands behind her peers.”

  Wharton scratched the stubble on his chin. “Your ship is manned with eighteen cannons, did you say?”

  “Correct. A fighting vessel. The entire crew is trained to wield cutlasses. My men are fighters, none better.”

  Wharton grinned. Ten days might not have been all that long to wait, especially if he had a new ship outfitted to blast that pillaging Scot and his entire clan off his miserable island. “Well then, shall we discuss this further in my rooms?”

  Denton flashed his thinned-lipped smile, the smug bastard. If the man had returned with anything less, Wharton would have not hesitated to humiliate him right there in the square. Sometimes the dark sneer on that man’s face needed a good slap and Wharton would have liked nothing more than to deliver it.

  He plodded up the stairs of the inn to the less-than-adequate rooms he’d let for the duration of his stay in Carlisle. They’d sail north with an army. He’d have his chance to unleash the violent storm that raced through his blood and the target of his ire would be the damnable woman he’d so foolishly wed, and her Scot.

  ***

  Wharton closed his eyes against the lurching of his gut as sailors hoisted him up the side of the White Lion. His size reflected the importance of his station but the strain of the ropes and the creaking of the winch had him praying the contraption would haul him safely to the deck.

  Boarding from a skiff in the Firth of Solway saved them a day’s ride to Maryport to use their pier. He was no milk-livered weakling who needed the security of a gangway to board a ship, as if for a pleasure cruise.

  Six sets of hands reached across the rail and pulled him over. The leather soles of his shoes slipped and he tumbled into the sailors and lay sprawled across the deck, belly up. “You careless dolts.” He rolled to his side. A sailor offered his hand. “I do not need your help.”

  Wharton pulled himself up using the rail, and scanned the deck for the captain. He found him standing at the helm, watching the activities from the quarterdeck. Wharton pattered up the stairs. “Ah, Captain Gilman. Have my things taken to your stateroom. I will commandeer your cabin for this journey.”

  The captain snapped his fingers at the tar. “Mister Winter. You heard his lordship. Take Lord Wharton’s valise to the captain’s cabin and see to it he’s made comfortable.”

  Wharton brushed off his breeches and doublet. His less than elegant entrance notwithstanding, the lowlife sailors now knew he was master of the ship, and their captain was his to command.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Calum wasted no time building his strength. Once his body gained some real sustenance, he could stand without swooning and now most of his stamina had returned. Boars ballocks, if anyone had seen him collapse on the bed, Mara and the friar would have tied him down and forced him to rest for a week or more. But this was no time to lie abed and nurse his wounds.

  He’d been up for near two weeks and had resumed practicing in the courtyard with his men. The unsavory expectation of battle hung heavy in the air. All must be in peak condition. Though the lash marks on his back were still weeping, Calum would not let them cripple him. He sparred with John, willing the pain to seep into his blood and empower him.

  The strength in his injured wrist had all but returned. He grasped his claymore with both hands as they circled. John lunged first. Calum darted aside and spun, whacking his opponent in the arse with the flat side of his weapon. “Bloody hell, Urquhart, don’t ye be going easy on me. We’ve a war to fight.”

  John whipped around with his sword over his head and sped in with a downward blow. Calum raised his claymore and blocked it. He shifted his weight and swung his foot into John’s path. The big man’s feet flew up and he landed on his back. “Blessed Mary, Calum. We’re just sparring.”

  “Aye.” Calum pointed his sword across the courtyard, eyeing his men. “This will be a battle to the death and every man must fight for his home and his womenfolk—’cause if ye do not, that thieving bastard will take it all. He’ll cut everyone’s throat and laugh whilst ye bleed out.”

  Calum’s eyes snapped back to John. “Now fight me like you’re defending Mara.”

  “And me unborn child.”

  Calum lowered his sword. “What?”

  John grinned and thumped his chest. “Me wife’s with child.”

  “Thank the heavens and all the stars. Congratulations, John.” But he’d make a toast later. Calum eyed him and reassumed his defensive stance, knees bent, sword ready. “Now, cousin, fight me as if yer wife’s and yer unborn child’s lives are at stake.”

  Fire flashed behind John’s eyes. Bellowing like a bull, he barreled in and swung his claymore. His wrist not quite fully healed, Calum struggled to defend the jarring blows and brandished his sword with both hands. The iron weapons clashed and screeched as the blades slid down their shafts with neither swordsman willing to back down. In a battle of muscle, the two men met face to face as their hilts touched. Sweat streamed into Calum’s eyes as he tried to push John away, but his cousin planted his foot into his gut and shoved. Calum stumbled and tripped, landing on his back.

  A million sharp knives drove into his flesh like the teeth of a shark. Calum bellowed. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. How could his body be so bloody weak? His feeble flesh betrayed him.

 
“Calum?” John kneeled at his side. “Are ye hurt?”

  “Of course I’m no’ hurt,” Calum yelled. He shook his head and tried to clear his vision. Blast it all, he would not show his weakness to his men. Calum lumbered to his feet and swayed, but he held up his sword, challenging John for another bout.

  John tapped the tip of his blade against a rock. “I think ye need to coach the guard. They’re looking a bit scraggly, they are.”

  Calum glanced over his shoulder at the lines of sparring partners. John’s suggestion did have merit. “Ye aren’t going easy on me, ’cause if ye are, I’ll kick yer arse all the way to Applecross.”

  “No, m’laird. Ye’ve plum tuckered me out.”

  Calum jutted out his chin. “All right then.” He sheathed his sword and strode through his troop of fighting men. He picked apart each man’s technique with a discerning eye until the sentry sounded the trumpet from atop the wall walk.

  Running out the gate with his men, Calum looked toward the sound. William MacLeod stood in a galley and waved his arms. Calum raced down to the beach as the mid-sized boat sailed into the shore. William jumped over the side and splashed his way through the surf. “A bloody English galleon just rounded the isle of Mull.”

  Calum’s gaze shot to John. As they’d thought, Wharton had commandeered the big guns. “We have a day, mayhap two.”

  “And ye can bet she’ll be laden with fighting men.”

  “Gather round, lads.” Calum turned and faced his men with the surf pounding behind. “With a galleon, they’ll have to sail round the Isle of Skye. When they reach Trotternish, let them think they’ve caught us unawares.”

  Bran held up his hand. “How will we do that with two ships moored in the bay?”

  “First, we’ll sail The Golden Sun to the cove at Applecross. She’ll be hidden from sight—they won’t even see her from our cove. We’ll keep her sails unfurled and when they attack, we’ll flank them at full speed.”

  “And what of the Sea Dragon?” Ian asked.

  Calum’s stomach clenched at the name of his most beloved ship. “She’ll be asleep in our bay. Her sails will be furled tight and we’ll no’ light the lamps, but the cannons will be manned.” He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. “The bastards will nay make it to our shore.”

  Calum knew the sea and knew his plan was sound, but he needed his brother’s reinforcements. He held his hand to his forehead to shield the sun from his eyes and looked northward. Where is that blasted Ruairi? Norman should have returned by now. I need him at the helm on The Golden Sun.

  Calum had eighty fighting men. He could use twice that and Ruairi had hundreds.

  Cheering, the men punched their fists in the air and bounded up the hill to share the news with their families.

  John hung back with Calum. “How do ye want to divide the men?”

  Calum drew the heel of his boot across the stony beach. “With Norman away, ye’ll have to sail The Golden Sun to Applecross.”

  John’s lips thinned, but he nodded. Calum knew his cousin would want to stay close to Mara, especially now she was carrying their first child, but Calum needed him on The Golden Sun more. He placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Ye’ll be safer on the galleon.”

  “’Tis no’ my safety that concerns me.”

  “Mara will be tucked away in the keep. They’ll no’ come near her.”

  John ground his fist into his palm. “If they touch her, I’ll cut off their ballocks and make the varlet’s eat them.”

  “As will I, cousin.” Calum started up the beach. “Go. Choose yer crew. I want ye to sail at dusk.”

  Calum’s breath labored as he climbed the steep slope to the keep. He hated the weakness that invaded his muscles. It could not sap his strength, not now when he needed to defend his clan. On the other side of Skye, a galleon approached and he knew Wharton was aboard that ship. The man was too full of hate and selfish pride to recline while others blasted cannons at Raasay.

  Yes. Wharton would be there so he could claim another victory against Scotland. Calum would not allow the baron to succeed. He would send the bastard to his grave and then find a way to make amends with Lady Anne. He’d win her even if it took a decade.

  Calum found Friar Pat tending his plot of dirt.

  The friar dusted his hands as he rose. “Ye look like ye’ve been bludgeoned to within an inch of yer life.”

  “How easily ye forget. I have.”

  “Ye need rest.”

  “’Twill have to wait until we blast the English out of the Sound of Raasay.”

  “They’ve been spotted, then?”

  “Aye.” Calum rubbed the back of his neck. “I need ye to mix a tincture for the pain—something that will no’ sap me wits. Can ye do it?”

  “There aren’t many options—willow bark tea.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “The best option’s a honey poultice wrapped with damp cloths.”

  Calum hated the sticky, slimy feel of the friar’s poultices but he knew Patrick was right. “Prepare enough mixture for two applications. I’ll take it on the ship with me.”

  “Should I come along? I can look after ye then.”

  “Nay. The women need ye here.” Calum drew in a deep breath and grasped the friar’s shoulders. “If we should fail, take the women and children to the north of the island and wait for Ruairi. Me brother will come—he may miss the battle—but he’ll be here.”

  “Ye will nay fail.”

  “I will no’, but I need ye to promise me ye’ll care for the families should something go awry.”

  “Of course ye have me word.” Patrick stepped in and grasped Calum’s shoulder. “I’ve listened to yer moans for near three days. If any of what ye said is true—and by the state of yer back I believe it is—that man is nay fit to live. Send the English murderer to his maker, and then bring back our Lady Anne.”

  The hair on the back of Calum’s neck tingled as if brushed by an eagle feather. “I intend to.”

  Anne remained ever present in his mind. He would never forget how the baron had slapped her, nor would he forget her strength when she stood there and took it without so much as a whimper.

  If he had only given in to his heart when she’d asked him to claim her on their last night in the forest. He’d wanted to enter her and make her his, but his prideful heart would not allow him. He should have feigned her death and dealt with Wharton’s ire after. At least she would be beside him now.

  If Calum could only have the chance to see her again, he would take her in his arms and cover her mouth with his. He’d knead his fingers into her back and when she begged for more, he’d slip his hand around and caress those milky white breasts that strained so proudly against her bodice.

  Calum’s entire body went rigid when he pictured himself tasting her, running his tongue around the dark pink skin at the tip of her breast. He wanted to make her moan with pleasure again and again. He wanted to be the one to take her to the pinnacle of passion between a man and a woman. Why had they been destined to meet? Their souls screamed to be together, yet all the forces in the world kept them apart.

  Calum closed the door to his chamber and latched it. Her trunks still lined the wall. Traces of Anne were everywhere. He opened his hand and revealed the kerchief and his heart squeezed. Taking in a deep breath, he pictured her standing by the hearth completely naked.

  When they’d danced at the Beltane festival the length of her body had slid down his, igniting every inch of his skin. His body had responded with a raging fire beneath his kilt. In the wood before she’d ridden into Carlisle, she had turned to jelly in his arms, stripped away her highborn demeanor and had revealed the depths of her own passion. She loved him and he desired her with every fiber of his being. He ached with a desperate need for release. Frantic passion pushed through his swollen, rigid flesh. He could not ignore his burning desire.

  Calum unbuckled his kilt and let it drop to the floor. His manhood jutted a
gainst his linen shirt. He imagined Anne’s perfect breasts as his fingers brushed the length of his cock. He gasped and his head dropped back. He wrapped his hand around his manhood and closed his eyes, envisioning Anne with her gown dropping to the floor as his kilt just had. Her ivory skin would glow amber in the firelight. With breasts and shapely hips swaying, she would reach out to him. He would eagerly step in to meet her. Anne would shutter her eyes, lift her chin and part her rosy lips for him. She would seduce him with her every movement.

  His hand milked his cock back and forth as he pictured the triangle that concealed her treasure. He had put his fingers there, slid them up into the hot, wet core of her body. She’d parted her legs for him and gave in to her basal needs. Calum worked his hand faster. He could feel himself inside her, thrusting. A cry caught in the back of his throat. In seconds his body shuddered with his release, spilling his seed onto the floorboards.

  Panting, he dropped his hand. Yet again he had succumbed to the weakness of his flesh. He needed to win Anne’s heart, to prove worthy of her love. Would she return to Raasay after she’d watched the soldiers drag him to the whipping post, stripped bare, humiliated for all to see?

  Calum pressed his palms against his face and raked his fingers through his hair. He could not live knowing she suffered under that tyrant’s roof. He must see her at least one more time. He bent down and picked up the kerchief she had made. He held it to his nose and inhaled. Closing his eyes, a trace of her scent remained. If she wouldn’t have him, so be it, but he had to offer her a chance to escape Wharton.

  ***

  Riding with Rorie and his band of ten Douglas men, Anne could now travel during daylight hours. With a little coaching from the older man, Anne had her Scottish bonnet pulled down over her forehead and pasted on a venomous scowl whenever riders came near.