Captured by the Pirate Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  Though the sun had not yet set, the horses needed rest and they stopped to make camp at Loch Long. Surrounded by rolling hills, the Eilean Donan Castle stood guard in the distance at the confluence of three great sea lochs. Anne remembered passing it when she had traveled south with Calum and his men. He’d told her the castle was a MacKenzie seat and it was best to give them a wide berth. Remembering that Dougal MacKenzie had not been overly accommodating when they took the horses at Applecross, she understood Calum’s reasoning.

  Anne dismounted and tested her ankle. Stepping on it, a dull ache spread from her calf to her knee—definitely an improvement. Fortunately, Rorie had caught one of the fallen English soldier’s horses for her to ride and several days in the saddle had provided needed relief. She had also taken an English sword from the battle site. Smaller and lighter than a claymore, she pulled it from the scabbard she’d tied to her saddle.

  Anne turned the weapon over in her hand and sliced a practice swing through the air. The iron hissed with the downward blow. Never having wielded a sword in her life, she thought her first attempt showed promise, until Rorie eyed her with his fists on his hips. “What do ye think you’re doing with an Englishman’s weapon?”

  “I took it at the castle. I need to be able to defend myself.”

  “Well, ye’ll no’ be able to fend off much with that. A rabbit, perhaps.”

  Anne swung it again, trying to make her effort look like Calum in the courtyard. “Why? ’Tis the same weapon the cavalry use throughout England.”

  “Aye, but they’re men.”

  “You think I cannot learn to wield a sword because I am a woman?”

  He chuckled. “Ye can learn to wield it, aye. But ye’ll no’ be able to hold onto it in a fight. Yer bones are too fine.” He drew his long claymore from his belt. “Let me show ye what I mean. Now come at me.”

  “You’re not serious. I could hurt you.”

  He shook his head and beckoned her with his fingers. “Ye’ve surely seen men spar before, come now, lass.”

  Anne looked at her sword and recalled how easily Calum had wrenched the dagger out of her hand when he burst through her stateroom door. That quick twist of her wrist had hurt. She wouldn’t let that happen this time. Grasping the sword with both hands, she raised it over her head and lunged at him with a downward slash.

  Rorie deflected the blow with an effortless swing of his arm. The sword flew out of her hands and somersaulted through the air. To the laughs of the guards, Anne snapped her head around and narrowed her eyes at Rorie’s smug smirk.

  At least the sword hadn’t hit anyone, or the horses. The muscles in her shoulders tensed as Rorie’s son, Hamish, retrieved her sword and playacted her pathetic attempt to attack. The men roared with laughter. Anne clenched her fists. This was nothing to laugh about. More than once her life had been threatened. It made good sense for her to learn to use a weapon.

  “Silence!” Rorie shoved his son aside and wrenched the sword from his hand. “What are ye standing around for? Build a fire and hunt us down some supper.”

  He turned to Anne with an apologetic frown, but tossed the sword aside. “If ye are hell bent on carrying a weapon, ye need something a bit less cumbersome.” He bent down and pulled the dirk from the sheath worn outside his knee-length hose. “Ye need the deadly blade all men use when locked in battle, and being a lassie, a dirk isn’t hard to hide or carry.”

  Anne nodded and accepted the knife. She rolled her fingers over the iron basket weave hilt. “Will you show me how to use it?”

  “If you’re attacked, the first thing ye need to do is center yer weight.” He demonstrated by spreading his legs and bending his knees. Anne followed. He chuckled. “Tis a good thing I’m a married gentleman. The sight of ye in those snug fitting trews is enough to boil any man’s blood.”

  “But Calum said I was safer traveling dressed this way.”

  “Aye, but if one were to take a good look at ye, there’s no mistaking yer gender.” He sliced his hands through the air. “Back to the lesson—Once yer weight is centered, hold the dirk in yer fist with the blade pointing down. That gives the greatest leverage for a downward strike.”

  Anne copied Rorie’s movement and slashed the knife through the air. He showed her the tender spots on a man and how to kill a soldier wearing armor. By the end of the lesson, Anne’s confidence had grown tenfold.

  Rorie led her to his horse and reached inside his saddlebag. “I always carry a spare. If ye ask me, a dirk’s the most important weapon in a man’s arsenal.” He handed it to her with a leather thong. “Tie it to yer leg.”

  “Thank you. I hope I never have to use it but I’ll be forever grateful to you for helping me.” She looked up and smiled. “Both for the dirk and taking me back to Calum.”

  “Baa—’tis no trouble.” He looked at her and squinted his weathered eyes. “What do ye plan to do once ye reach Raasay?”

  Anne took a deep breath. She had thought of little else during the ride north. “The first thing I must do is ask Calum’s forgiveness. I never meant to betray his clan, I only wanted to spare him further torture.”

  “Any reasonable man will understand.”

  “I hope so. I cannot live with myself, thinking he hates me.”

  “’Twould be very difficult indeed to go through life and hate a lassie as fair as you. Look at all ye’re risking to go after him.” He pulled his saddle off his horse and set it down. Anne did the same. “What will ye do after ye see him?”

  Of course she had considered Calum might not easily forgive her, but she’d do everything she could to make herself worthy of his love. But what if Calum banished her? “I cannot go back to England as long as Wharton is alive.”

  “What about yer family?”

  “Mother would insist I go back to the baron. My sister, Elizabeth is a countess—married to the Earl of Sussex.”

  “Right near royalty, aye? That’s a possibility.”

  Anne unrolled the tartan blanket Rorie had loaned her. “No. The earl is active in the House of Lords. I doubt he’d offer me sanctuary.”

  Rorie patted her saddle. “Sit. If Calum MacLeod won’t pull his head out of his arse, I’ll take ye back to the Douglas and see what me lady wife can think to do with ye.”

  Anne tried to smile. She could imagine no other life except one on Raasay. She closed her eyes and pictured Calum dancing with her from across the maypole. His dark gaze had focused only on her almost as if he were hungry, starving—but not for food—for her. When they danced together, his eyes had strayed to her breasts and remained there. And yet they had shared so much more than lust for flesh. An unwelcomed doubt splayed across the back of her neck. She couldn’t forget he had not fought for her when it came time to collect the ransom. But Rorie wouldn’t even accept a few shillings to escort her to Raasay.

  Calum had never shown her a greedy side, but he could spurn her, cast her aside now he had the baron’s money. Something deep inside told her to stop. She would not be the one to let go without a fight.

  I want a life where I can make a difference, like I had on Raasay. Wharton wanted me to be used like a stuffed deer head to mount in his wall. At Brochel Castle, no one cared what I looked like or how I dressed. The clan opened up to me because I worked beside them, taught the children, and helped them inventory their stolen goods…which they so desperately needed.

  I love Calum with every fiber of my soul, and I will do everything to make him fall in love with me.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Being the laird and protector of Raasay, Calum had an understanding of the heightened emotional state of women when they were with child, but the way Mara carried on exceeded the limits of his imagination. Her wails rang through the hall as if her husband had already been skewered by an enemy blade.

  John didn’t help matters. He grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “I’ll be back in no time. Ye need to tend to the keep, and nay think of me.”

  “H
ow can I do anything with ye out in the night with English ships sailing about?”

  John’s face turned to panic as he looked toward the rafters as if in search of the right words.

  Calum stepped in to lend a hand to his tongue-tied cousin. “He’s needed to protect the clan. If he stays here like a milk-livered coward, he’ll be no use to the lot of us.”

  Mara shifted her gaze to him, and red-hot pokers shot from her baleful stare. “’Tis all yer fault, turning to piracy and leading the murdering English to our home.”

  “Mara!” John swooped behind her and lifted her into a bear hug.

  Calum rubbed his jaw. “John will be safer on The Golden Sun than any other place.”

  John hauled his kicking bride up the stone staircase and her voice echoed through the cavernous walls. “He should be with his wife and unborn child. Blast the lot of ye.”

  Sometime after supper, John descended the stairs smoothing out his shirt and kilt. “There’s just no placating her.”

  Ian, who had three bairns of his own shook his head. “Ye’ve got several more months of it too—and it doesna get better.”

  “John, ye must keep yer mind focused.” Calum had no time to worry about what to do with a matron who had lost her mind. He took charge and stationed a trumpeter on the high point lookout and climbed down to the shore, leading his men. John’s sailors boarded The Golden Sun and Calum decided his crew would sleep on the Sea Dragon. There was much needed preparation ensuring the cannons and ammunition was stocked and ready for battle. Besides, he couldn’t listen to Mara carry on as if all the menfolk were going to die—and if he couldn’t take it, neither could his men. No one needed the bellyaching of a naysayer the eve before a battle. They loaded up provisions and headed for the ships.

  Friar Pat opted to row across with Calum for the night. He said his prayers might be better received by the Holy Father if chanted from the deck of the Sea Dragon. Honestly, Calum thought the friar needed to slip away from Mara’s grousing too. The entire keep was in for a very long summer.

  After making his rounds and discussing strategy with his men, Calum retired to the captain’s cabin. Though not as extravagant as his cabin on The Golden Sun, this chamber had been his seafaring home for near seven years now and served his needs. His father had given him the carrack with the lairdship, and Calum had loved the ship as much as any human—except Anne. Perhaps that was why no lassie on the isle had turned his head. Of course he had a fond taste for women—but none under his watch. The wenching he’d done was away from the clan and away from scandal.

  Calum removed his shirt and unwrapped his dressing. In the mirror, he eyed the marks on his back. Pink skin peeked out from under the scabs which had formed on the outer edges. The deeper lashings in the center of his back still oozed.

  He answered the rap on his door, and the friar came in holding a pot of poultice.

  “I’d like to let it air for the night.”

  The friar placed the stoneware pot on the sideboard. “Very well. Shall I return in the morning then?”

  “Aye, but first come in and have a tot of whisky with me.”

  “I’ve never been one to turn down a fine sip of distilled spirit.”

  “Ah, Father, you’re a holy man of keen sensibilities. ’Tis what I like most about ye.” Calum filled two goblets with his flagon and gestured to the table with four rickety wooden chairs. “Sit.”

  Patrick held the liquor to his nose and inhaled the aroma before he sipped. “Do ye really think the baron is aboard the English ship?”

  “I have no doubt. That man is a hater, that one. He and his black-hearted henchman are both hewn from the same cloth. Their hate feeds them.”

  “’Tis a sad thing they cannot leave well enough alone.”

  “Aye, but the English would have been after us sooner or later, looking for the Flying Swan.”

  “They wouldna have found it.”

  Calum tossed the whisky down his throat. The smooth amber liquid slid down with scarcely a burn. “They would have suspected The Golden Sun and blasted their cannons at us anyway. This just hurried them along.”

  The friar reached for the flagon and poured two more goblets. “Ye will kill him?”

  “I plan to.”

  Friar Pat frowned and stared into his goblet.

  “A man like that will no’ let up, and if I dunna stop him, Lady Anne will be his next victim.”

  “And what will ye do once the baron is no more?”

  “I’ll find her.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Patrick drained his drink and set his goblet on the table. “That’ll do it for me. I’ll see ye in the morning.”

  Calum watched the friar leave and pulled Anne’s kerchief from his sporran. He traced his finger around the needlework of the belt circling the sun. He held it to his nose and closed his eyes. With a deep inhale, he prayed she could hear him in her mind’s eye. Know that I love you.

  ***

  Lord Wharton woke before dawn, dressed and clamored out of the captain’s cabin. He used the hilt of his dagger to pound on all the stateroom doors. “Wake, you lazy sots. There’s a battle to be fought.”

  Wharton didn’t wait for the officers. He strode down to the sailor’s quarters and clanged the meal bell. Men suspended in hammocks griped and glared at him with murderous scowls. Wharton chuckled. He liked their spirit, but he wouldn’t tolerate even a hint of insolence. “All hands on deck and wipe that evil grimace off your face sailor, or I’ll have you whipped.”

  Wharton lumbered up to the main deck and paced. A sailor scurried past, and Wharton caught his arm. “Ready the skiffs.”

  “But I…”

  “No argument, sailor. Ready the blasted skiffs, I say.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Wharton committed the man’s face to memory and watched him scurry away. If the skiffs weren’t ready by the time Raasay was in sight, he would make an example of that useless sailor.

  Captain Gilman stepped onto the deck, adjusting his feathered cap.

  “Sir Edward. ’Tis about time you showed yourself. I’ve asked the men to ready the skiffs.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  “Do you know nothing of warfare? I would expect more from a knighted captain in the queen’s navy.” Wharton waited for a reaction, but the captain restrained his ire well. “We shall drop foot soldiers at the north of the island. If we fail by sea, then we will conquer by land.”

  “Hmm. And the terrain on the north of Raasay is passable? I thought it was uninhabited.”

  “Of course it is passable. No obstacle can stop an English soldier.”

  “Very well. And will you be accompanying these troops with your keen knowledge of fighting the Scots overland?”

  Wharton watched as more surly, stinking sailors swarmed to the deck. “Do not think your impertinent tone has gone unnoticed. I might think to send you.”

  With a thin-lipped nod, the captain climbed the steps to the quarterdeck. “Prepare to launch the skiffs, quartermaster.”

  Wharton headed back to the officer’s quarters and found Master Denton. “I want you to take a contingent overland and attack from the rear.”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  Wharton ground his fist into his palm. No one would stop him from killing the Scot and blasting his keep off the island. He would take back the Flying Swan and shove it down Fortescue’s throat. He smirked. Perhaps the queen would grant him other titles, possibly even an earldom. Then he’d be on a level playing field with Northumberland. The queen might offer him his pick of any castle in Northern England. With her permission, he would take a fortress as grand as Alnwick. Lindsfarne on the Holy Island would suit—and what an excellent stronghold from which to control the pillaging Scots.

  Wharton rubbed his belly. This day his appetite was not for eggs and rashers of bacon. This day he would satisfy his hunger with victory.

  Under Wharton’s orders, they moored the White Lion off the Isle of Rona, ne
arly a stone’s throw from the northern shore of Raasay. There, he commanded the skiffs to be launched. The White Lion would lay in wait until the sun set. Wharton preferred to attack under cover of darkness, to pull the Scots from their supper feast, skewer them and rape their women. Wharton could scarcely control the jittering inside his bones.

  ***

  Late morning, the battle trumpet sounded from the north cliff, signifying Wharton had rounded the Isle of Skye and entered Raasay waters. Calum used his spyglass to locate William MacLeod. The skinny man skittered down from the lookout and headed toward the beach.

  Friar Pat walked in beside Calum. “It looks as if William has news.”

  “Aye. And ’tis time for ye to head back to shore.”

  “I’ll hear what William has to say and take the boat back with him.”

  Calum filled his lungs with the crisp salty air. Clouds blanketed the sky and he hoped the rain would stay at bay. He preferred to fight upon the sure footing of dry decks. He raised his arms over his head and stretched. With fresh air in his lungs, Calum’s strength returned and his muscles twitched in anticipation of the battle to come. He flexed his wrist. Even it felt stronger.

  They crossed portside to meet William as the winch hoisted him to the main deck. Bran and Calum reached out and pulled him across the rail.

  “What news?” Calum asked.

  “They are ferrying men to the shore. Looks like they’re planning an attack by land as well as sea.”

  “How many have gone ashore?”

  “Forty or so.”

  Calum stroked his chin. “They think the troops will make it to Brochel from the rocky north and be here by in time for the battle?”

  “Could be done with hard marching. The ship dropped anchor off Rona. Looks like they’re waiting for nightfall.”

  “Dropped anchor did ye say?” Calum looked across the Inner Sound to Applecross. The Golden Sun was hidden from sight. He could send a skiff across to bring back a few men, but they were needed to man the ship. “Blast it all, where is Norman with Ruairi? Can I no’ count on me own kin?”