by Amy Jarecki
He lifted his chin. “Fight with the crown when there’s another way?”
Anne turned her back and faced the fire. “Saints preserve us, Calum.”
***
Ross watched the galley’s sail pick up a strong wind when they turned south.
The navigator pointed ahead. “We’ll see Brochel Castle any time now. She looms over the beach near the north of the island.”
The queasiness of his empty stomach quelling, Ross crossed to the bow and opened his spyglass, but he didn’t need it when the boat rounded the point. Brochel Castle indeed presided over the beach, its grey walls rising above the white sands. A fortress as impressive as Edinburgh Castle. He swallowed hard. He assumed he’d see a larger fleet in the bay, but only a few small galleys moored, rising and falling with the surf.
He held his fist in the air. “Ready your weapons, men.” His command repeated along the line of galleys as they sailed into the cove. The tension that fills the air before a battle raced through Ross’s blood. With a flick of his arm, he tossed one side of his cloak over his shoulder.
Robert stood beside him. “I see no one on the battlements. Should we fire a warning shot onto the beach?”
“And alert them of our presence? The cock has barely begun to crow. Let’s meet the laird at his own gates—I wouldn’t spoil the surprise with a blast.”
Robert grinned. “Mr. Fisher was right—give them some time. Let them think we’re not going to pursue them.”
But it was too quiet. There was no movement on the battlements—no horn sounded. Why would a man like Calum MacLeod make it so easy? Ross’s gaze darted to the moored galleys. “I thought MacLeod had a larger fleet.”
The Lowlander captain shrugged. “I doubt a poor Highlander living on an isle this small would have many boats.”
A resounding boom blasted behind them. Crouching, Ross covered his head with his arms. Another blast shook the seas. A cannonball slammed into the surf, sending their galley bobbing like it was on the open sea. When Ross looked up, his blood ran cold. A mighty carrack and a galleon trapped the armada of small galleys in the cove. They were surrounded and outgunned.
A battle cry came from the beach as fighting men pushed cannons into view. Archers with loaded bows aimed at them from the crenel notches. Ross glared at his son. “You thought this would be easy?”
Robert crouched behind the hull. “As did you.” He peeked over the rail. “We might need a slight change in plans.”
Ross pointed to the nearest soldier. “Give me your shirt.”
“Pardon, m’lord?”
“You heard me. I need your shirt, and make it fast, else you’ll have no tongue with which to question your betters.”
Ross tied the shirt to the flagpole and gave the order for the oarsmen to row the galley to into the beach, motioning for the other boats to hold back.
***
Calum stood behind the big iron cannon at the center of the beach. “He wants to parley.”
Malcolm folded his arms. “Lord Ross is no fool.”
“Fortunately, he played right into my hands. Go fetch the lassie.”
Calum stepped out from behind the cannon and sauntered onto the beach. In seconds, a dozen clansmen flanked him. He would have preferred it if Bran and John were at his side, but this could be handled without his greatest muscle, and God willing, without a single drop of blood.
Calum had seen many galleys like the ones that accompanied Lord Ross to Raasay. In fact, he owned two very similar boats. With eighteen oars, there would most likely be eighteen to twenty fighting men aboard each one. The galley came to a slow stop when it slid into the smooth rocks of Brochel Beach.
Lord Ross hopped over the side, splashing into thigh-deep water. Calum smiled. The water was cold enough to freeze the ballocks off a bull. After his son handed him the white flag of parley, the men moved to disembark. Calum held up his hand. “Only Lord Ross.”
The baron gave his son a sharp nod and marched through the surf. Calum counted the muskets trained on his heart. Twenty.
“How kind of you to pay a visit to Raasay.” Calum made a point of staring at Ross’s wet hose, following up to his velvet trews and the water streaming from the bottom of his cloak. He then focused on the white shirt tied to the flagpole. “Ye didna need to bring such a large fleet of fighting men if ye wanted to parley.”
“You ken why I’m here.”
“I have an inkling. But I dunna like leaving things to chance. Exactly why are ye here?”
Ross slammed the base of the pole into the sand. “I’m here to claim my daughter and to see your traitorous henchman is brought to justice.”
Calum balled his fists. How easily Ross had swapped sides for his own gain. “As I recall, Regent Moray declared ye a traitor, right there on the steps of the tolbooth.”
“I was pardoned along with my son.”
Calum squinted. “For a grand fee, I’ve no doubt.” He moseyed forward until he was within a hand’s breadth of the “traitorous” baron. A head shorter, Ross craned his neck and looked him in the eye. Calum read a hint of fear, but the man’s eyes reflected something that disgusted him more. Ruthlessness.
Ross didn’t blink. “Do you honestly want to become an enemy of the king?”
“Do ye honestly think I would let ye sail out of here with yer life?”
“We’re ready to fight, and with God as my witness, you will be the first to die.” Ross stood his ground, feisty for a noble.
“Ye don’t say.” Calum scratched his chin. The time had come to show his hand. His ploy better work, or ten-year-old Alexander might very well be the next Laird of Raasay. All Ross need do was give the command, and Calum had little doubt the muskets would blow a hole through him the size of a cannonball—though Calum would use the baron as a shield, which would stop the first dozen or so musket balls. “Given the circumstances, I’d like to propose a trade.”
Ross blinked for the first time. “Go on.”
“I’ll give ye yer daughter, if ye’ll convince the crown to grant a pardon to Sir Bran and Sir Malcolm.”
At the mention of his captain of the guard, Ross scanned the beach. “Malcolm is here?”
“Aye.” Calum rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring Ross’s body blocked him from any twitchy musket fingers. “I need yer answer now.”
Ross gave him a nod. “Very well. A pardon in exchange for my daughter.”
“Two pardons.”
“Agreed.”
“Then call off yer guns.”
Ross turned and gave the signal to lower the musket barrels.
Calum looked up the hill and beckoned to Malcolm. He led the pretty little lass out the castle gates and down the winding hill. Calum could hear the death knell on the breeze as she walked toward him, her hands bound behind her back.
Calum had never seen a pair of green eyes hold so much contempt. Malcolm led her by the elbow, but when they stopped, she twisted out of his grasp. “That’s why you sent Bran to man the ship.”
Grinding his teeth, he faced Ross. “I had to do what was best for the clan.”
“You’re a filthy traitor. You would sell your soul to the devil for your own gain.” Her words sliced through his heart, worse than being stabbed by a dagger.
Lord Ross grasped Enya by the elbow and yanked her beside him. “Have you been treated badly, daughter?”
If Enya could shoot darts from her eyes, the baronet would be dead. “Hello, Father. Has Lord Hamilton returned from his exile in England and paid for his pardon?”
“That is a splendid idea.” He grasped her arm. “Come, before we impose further on Laird Calum’s hospitality.”
***
It took five men to restrain Bran when he watched Malcolm muscle his woman onto the beach. And the bastards were in on it. John and Murdoch stood beside him at the ship’s rail. Bran twitched to order the cannons to fire when he saw Ross waving the white flag of parley. And then it didn’t take a mind reader to figu
re out what had been negotiated when Enya appeared with her wrists bound.
Bran abruptly raced to the main deck to launch a skiff. He had to reach to the beach before Ross could put her in a boat, but John reached in and pulled Bran’s sword. Murdoch and Hamish grasped Bran’s arms, with two men diving for Bran’s feet. “Ye’re bloody traitors, the lot of ye!” Bran twisted and struggled, dragging all four men while John finished disarming him.
They wrenched Bran’s arms behind his back. The rough surface of hemp rope scraped around his wrists and ankles.
“Ye planned this, ye backstabbing whoresons.”
“Tie him to the main mast until Calum arrives,” John ordered.
Bloody Calum. Whether he was laird or not no longer mattered. Bran had been deceived—his loyalty chewed up and spat out in the sand as if years of dedication meant nothing. While the rope was wound around his body, fury expanded in Bran’s chest. Pulling against the grating hemp, he watched the king’s armada sail up the Sound of Raasay.
“Enya!” he roared at the top of his lungs. Bran strained against the ropes as they cut into his flesh. He would never rest until he found her.
John said Calum would arrive soon and board the Flying Swan. The chieftain had much to atone for, but he would no longer be Bran’s lord and master.
What must be going through Enya’s head? She’ll think the lot of us betrayed her.
***
When Lord Ross grasped her elbow, Enya jerked away so hard, she almost fell over. Hands tied behind her back, she marched into the surf with her father close behind.
He loosed her bindings. “You’ll thank me for this one day.”
“I’ll never thank you for anything as long as I live.”
“I knew you had a mean streak.” He gestured to the rope ladder. “But I liked your idea of purchasing a pardon for Claud Hamilton. That just might be how we get you out of this mess.”
Enya started to climb. “Me? This was no mess until you showed up on the beach.”
“Watch your tongue. You’re dangerously close to overstepping your bounds.”
Robert reached over and offered a hand. “I see you fared reasonably well with the barbarians.” Not even her brother could show a shred of sympathy.
Ross tossed up the rope. “Tie her aft. I’ll not have her doing something stupid like jumping ship and trying to swim back.”
Enya shoved Robert in the chest. “You wouldn’t.”
Robert’s face twisted with an apologetic look, and then he glanced at Lord Ross as he climbed into the boat. “It won’t be for long.”
Ross climbed into the galley. “I’ll say when she’ll be released.”
Robert wound the rope around her midriff, binding her hands in front for comfort. “I’m sorry we have to do this.”
She stared directly into his eyes. “But you’re doing it all the same.”
Robert sat on the bench across from her. “What were you thinking? Did you honestly believe Father would allow you to run after a Highlander, a lowborn one at that?”
Her blood boiling, Enya strained against her bindings. “Father cares naught about me. Why can he not leave me be and let me live my life?”
“Because no daughter of his will make him look foolish.”
“And you support him.”
“I am his son and his heir.”
Her brother was as bullheaded as their father. “Can you not see this is wrong? Have you no love for me?”
Robert reached out and brushed her cheek. Enya snapped her head away. “Ah, sister, your eyes are filled with stars. Marry Claud Hamilton. Once his lands are returned, he will provide a good home and you’ll never want for anything.”
“If Father can find him.”
“He will.”
Enya clenched her fists. “I will never marry that strutting peacock.” Could no one understand? For the love of God, Bran was her man.
“Robert,” Lord Ross bellowed. “Leave her be. You could learn a thing or two from the navigator.”
“Wait,” Enya whispered loudly. “Where is he taking me?”
Robert stood and adjusted his belt. “Iona.”
“Why?”
Robert shook his head.
She wasn’t about to him by without explaining. “I want to hear it.”
White lines formed around Robert’s pursed lips. “He said he cannot trust a deceitful wench under his roof.”
Enya wanted to scream as she watched Robert climb over the oar benches to stand beside her father at the stern. I’ll wager he said far worse than that.
The sail billowed with wind, and Enya was hit with the sickly realization she was sailing away from Bran. She tried to stand, but her bindings held tight. She craned her neck, but all she could see was the shore and the flurry of activity on the beach. How could this be real? It was as if Calum reached down her throat and tore her guts out. She’d trusted him. Bran had trusted him.
Her mind darted back to the moment in the antechamber when Bran told her not to worry. Was he in on the betrayal too? She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the passion behind his last kiss. Calum had sent him aboard the Flying Swan to ensure he was nowhere near the beach when Calum betrayed her. Malcolm was a party to it—and she thought the former captain of her father’s guard had declared fealty to Clan MacLeod. Calum, mayhap, but he was not loyal to the clan, else she would never had been deceived.
Enya half expected Bran to jump over the side of his ship and swim to her rescue, but he had not. Nor would he have been successful, with twenty galleys filled with fighting men.
Traded to the devil so the charges against Bran and Malcolm would be dropped? Her worth in this world had always been that—a pawn to be moved by powerful men to enable them to earn what they wanted.
Enya needed to talk to Bran. He promised he would come for her…but why had Calum done this? Would Calum restrain Bran? But why, why, why? Her chin dropped to her chest. She couldn’t think straight.
Numbing pinpricks stabbed at her fingers. Though it was cold, she didn’t shiver. Enya crouched against the hard wood at the back of the galley and stared into space. She’d be cloistered in the nunnery at Iona until her father saw fit to marry her off to Claud or some poor, unsuspecting cad. Mayhap she’d give her life to God. Mayhap she’d hide behind the walls of the abbey so no one could ever take her dreams and stomp on them as if a piece of horse dung.
Then a lump formed a solid ball in her throat. Enya began to shiver uncontrollably. She must protect her unborn bairn.
Chapter Thirty
When Calum boarded the Flying Swan, Bran could have shot daggers through his eyeballs. Worse, Malcolm, that arse-kissing traitor, walked behind Calum as if he’d become the laird’s new henchman. As soon as Bran could wrap his fingers around the hilt of a sword, he’d run the former captain of Ross’s guard through.
Calum held his palms up and walked forward. “’Tis no’ what ye think.”
Bran’s chest heaved. “I’m tied to a bloody, stinking, unbendable mast!” Bran’s voice started low, but increased to a roar. He stretched his neck and twisted against his bindings. “What else can it be? Ye betrayed me and ye betrayed the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
Bran scanned the faces on the deck to ensure all were watching, his every muscle wound tight.
“Ye better be quaking in yer boots ’cause I will no’ be tied here forever.” He glared at Calum. “Unless ye plan to ship me back to Glasgow to see out me sentence.”
Calum glared back, his fists on his hips. “Are ye finished now so I can explain?”
Blood boiling, Bran fought against his bindings. The ropes were slipping and he’d bust out sooner or later. “Ye better talk fast.”
“Or what?” Calum said. “Ye’ll slip yer wrists out of the rope and wrap yer fingers around me neck?”
That was exactly what he wanted to do. “Aye.”
Calum glanced at John, who held a sheathed sword in his hands. “The bastard’s madder than I thought.”
<
br /> John frowned. “Och, Calum. Stop toying with him. We all want to ken yer plan.” As Calum’s cousin, John could be more persuasive with the laird. “This is madness.”
Calum waved everyone in. “Gather round, lads.” Though everyone on deck could hear, Calum looked directly at Bran. “I couldna let the king’s armada sail into Brochel Cove and blast them all to hell.”
Bran splayed his fingers. If he could work loose his bindings, he’d wrap them round Calum’s thick neck and kill him. “Why no’?”
John nodded. “Aye, they threatened us—”
Calum sliced his hands through the air, demanding silence. “Will ye let me finish? If we killed them all, there would be retribution, and the lot of us would be fugitives. The regent could declare our lands forfeit. I had to think of something that would be a victory for everyone involved.”
Bran strained against the ropes, his muscles aching to slam his fist into Calum’s jaw. “So ye gave them Enya’s head,” he growled.
Calum took one more step toward Bran. “For now.” He scanned the deck and looked every man in the eye. “I purchased a pardon for Sir Bran and Sir Malcolm with a loan of Lord Ross’s daughter.”
The deck erupted in a chorus of bellows. Clearly the clan did not approve.
John pounded the sword on the deck. “Silence!”
Calum gave him a nod. “Do ye all have so little faith in me that I would deliver Bran’s bonny lassie into the hands of a tyrant without a plan to fetch her back?”
“Ye did,” Bran groused.
“Aye, but Malcolm confirmed he’ll take her to Iona. All we have to do is bide our time and wait until his ships are clear of the Sound of Iona, and we walk right in and have words with the abbess.”
Bran’s ire slipped a notch, though the fire burning in his belly still inflamed. “But why didna ye just tell us? Why did ye have to put us through hell?”
“If Enya didna think she was going to Iona for an indeterminate amount of time, do ye think Lord Ross would have bought it? She had to be terrified. She had to feel like the whole world abandoned her.”
