Return of the Highland Laird: A Highland Force Novella

by Amy Jarecki

  She spread her arms and took a step toward him. “But I do lo—”

  He sliced his hand through the air. “Do no’ say it. I’d take ye with me, but ye’ve proved yer feelings are nay as deep as mine.” He picked up the dog and shoved him into Jane’s arms. “Take Max into the house and do no’ allow him to follow me.”

  “That’s it, then? You’re walking away?”

  “I’m doing what I should have done near a month ago.” He inched backward. “I’ll nay forget ye, but we’ve lives to live. Our paths never should have crossed.” The muscles in his jaw tightened and he bowed his head. “I wish ye well, m’lady.”

  She could utter not a sound, her throat raw, the pain in her chest unbearable. This cannot be happening. Jane blinked and a tear streamed down her face while she watched Alexander disappear into the wood. Dumbfounded, she stood for a moment, willing him to come back, staring at the thick foliage. The sound of his footsteps snapping twigs was soon replaced by bird whistles and the soft rustle of leaves.

  He’d left her.

  With Max in her arms, she staggered into the cottage. A wail burst through her throat as she set the dog down. My God, I will never find happiness again.

  Fleeing to the bedchamber, she threw herself onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Why must life be fraught with suffering? Why could happiness only be fleeting glimpses in time? Why could Alexander not understand how much courage it had taken to allow him into her life? Some things could never be uttered. Never.

  She rolled to her side and clutched the pillow to her breast. Rocking, Jane tried to suppress the pain tearing her heart to shreds.

  ***

  Alexander marched through the forest like a wounded bull. God’s teeth, what the hell had he been thinking? When he left Raasay, he’d been blinded by remorse and somehow Lady Jane had wound her English talons around his heart. He had no business staying in Abbey Wood, hiding from the world. Thankfully the pompous Mr. Cox came when he did. It was the blow to the gut Alex needed.

  The further he walked from Jane’s cottage, the more his mind honed. Finally, he had clarity of thought. Alex blinked and saw Malcom’s cherubic face. His heart ached to again cradle the bairn in his arms. His life at Brochel Castle boiled to the surface. Oh, how he missed Ian and his mother. How he missed the familiar faces of his clan and the gatherings in the great hall.

  Alex stopped when he arrived at the edge of Abbey Wood. In the distance, two men tilled a field. When they spotted him, one pointed.

  Alexander had no time for a confrontation with any numbskull from St. Bees. He took a sharp turn and headed northeast toward Whitehaven. There would be a greater opportunity to find work in a port town. Perhaps with luck, he’d locate a transport headed to Scotland, else he might earn a few shillings working as a seaman so he could pay his way home. He snorted. Having been the master on many voyages, doing the work of an able seaman would take him back to his boyhood when he climbed the rigging for his father.

  By the time Alexander walked onto the pier in Whitehaven, his mind had again run amuck with thoughts of Lady Jane. Heaven help him, he’d never had feelings for a woman like his craving for her. None too soon would he forget the depth of her acorn eyes, or the soft tresses that swept across his chest when they lay together.

  But they were from different worlds. He doubted Jane would ever want to live in Scotland. Aye, being isolated in the wood was like living in a dream. It could never have lasted. Sooner or later they would be forced to interact with the locals, and that would be the end of their peace and quiet for good. Mr. Cox would protect Lady Jane until she gained a pardon from whatever crime she’d committed. Alex clenched his fists. He must cease worrying about her.

  But he couldn’t suppress his errant thoughts. The lady was so helpless, and that damned dog was of no use at all aside from companionship. While he walked, Alexander’s gut twisted in knots no matter how he tried to justify his decision to leave.

  When at last a familiar scene played out on the busy pier, he steeled his resolve. It was time to return home. A grand galleon sat at anchor in the bay—as handsome as his own ship, The Golden Sun. Two single-masted galleys and a double-masted barque bobbed in the waves, tied to mooring posts. A squire dressed in knee-length breeches, carrying rolls of parchment hastened past. Alexander held out his hand and stopped him. “Excuse me, sir.”

  The man took one look at Alexander’s worn plaid and frowned. “Yes?”

  “Would ye ken if any of these vessels is heading to Scotland?”

  He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, toward the galleon. “The St. Mary is off to London once she’s loaded. Don’t know about the others—they’re fishing boats, mainly.”

  “My thanks.”

  Alexander took in a deep inhale. Ah, the familiar smells of the sea—some pleasant, the dead fish floating near the shore unpleasant. He watched a pair of seamen struggle to roll a barrel up the gangway of one of the galleys. With a bit of training, the lads would have no trouble maneuvering the kegs on their own.

  Alexander sauntered forward and tested a barrel sitting on the back of a horse-drawn cart. The contents inside sloshed, emitting an unmistakable aroma of hops. Ale for certain. Having spent the past month or so hauling logs and fallen trees for Lady Jane, Alexander took a chance. When a man needed employment, he must make a lasting impression. It took two Englishmen to push a barrel of ale up a wee gangway? Tugging down his shirt, Alex aimed to prove the might of a Scotsman.

  Hefting the barrel over his shoulder, he drew in a couple quick inhales and steadied himself. Bloody hell, the blasted thing weighed more than he’d guessed. Clenching his teeth, his legs quivered with each step, but in no way would Alex let on how much the weight strained him. When he placed his foot on the gangway, he leaned forward to gain balance upon the slanted incline. He glanced up. Sailors from the galley were lined along the rail watching him.

  “You drop that in the drink and I’ll take the payment out of your hide.” Those words must have come from the captain.

  Alex tried to keep his face from grimacing. The damned barrel teetered precariously on his shoulder. He reached the top of the gangway, met by two seamen who helped him lower it. “My thanks,” he said.

  One gave him a nod. “I wouldn’t want to see it take a tumble and crack the hull.”

  Brushing off his hands, Alex grinned. “Who said I aimed to let it fall?” He glanced around and spotted the captain. Dressed in a finely tailored doublet with a velvet bonnet, the man sauntered forward. “You took a mighty big risk with the men’s ale.”

  Alex shrugged. “No’ so much. I could have taken the barrel up a gangway twice as long, or seen it rigged and hoisted aboard a tall ship.”

  “You’ve experience, I take it?”

  “Aye, raised on the sea. Just like any Scotsman from the Hebrides.” Alexander reached for a length of rope and tied off a pair of bowline knots as if he could do it in his sleep. “I’m looking to earn me way home.”

  “Scotland?” The captain batted his hand through the air. “This boat fishes English waters. I’ve no taste for bloody Highland pirates raiding my ship.”

  Alexander smirked. Smart fella. “All I ask is a chance to earn me keep. I can navigate, man an oar, work the sail. In fact, there’s no’ a job on a galley I havena done.”

  The captain eyed him then squeezed Alexander’s shoulder. “You have some muscle under that fine linen shirt, but I do not need another hand.”

  Alexander stood firm. “Give me a sennight. If I havena proved me worth by then, send me on me way, else pay a respectable wage and I’ll ensure ye nay regret it.”

  The captain folded his arms and tilted up his chin. “Very well. I’ll allow one turn at sea. And I’ll not pay you a farthing if you turn out to be a lazy bastard.”

  Chapter Ten

  After anchoring The Golden Sun in the Maryport harbor on the English side of the Firth of Solway, Ian and Bran took a half-dozen guardsmen ashore in a skiff. Ian clu
tched the scroll with the drawing of Alexander’s birlinn under his arm. They were in hostile waters now. They’d stay to the waterfronts of each village, ask their questions and be on their way—as long as no one picked a fight.

  Just in case that happened, every man was armed with a dirk in his belt, a claymore strapped to his back and daggers hidden in every known and unknown crevice of his kit.

  Once they alighted at the pier, Sir Bran strode on Ian’s right. Flanked by the guardsmen, there was little possibility they’d see trouble, but Ian didn’t discount it either. He gave the bustling activity a careful inspection. Ahead, a clerk recorded goods being offloaded from a galley. Ian pointed. “There. He looks like the type of fella who’d notice everything.”

  “Aye,” Bran agreed.

  Ian led the group toward the man. “Hail, friend.”

  The clerk glanced up and paled, his gaze drifting to their weaponry. “You have business in Maryport, Highlander?”

  Ian unrolled the velum. “We’re looking for a birlinn.” He held it out. “’Tis somewhat small, and unique in that it has dragons’ heads at its stern and bow.”

  The man studied the drawing and then glanced sidewise. “I’m not certain.”

  Bran leaned in and cracked his knuckles. “What do ye mean? Ye’ve either seen the wee boat or nay.”

  The blighter rubbed his fingers together. “A shilling for my purse might help my memory.”

  Ian sneered. “Ye’ve got cods, blackmailing the lot of us.”

  “Perhaps, but there’s nary a man on this pier who wouldn’t fight for me, should I be threatened.” He leaned forward on his perch. “You’re not threatening me, are you, gentlemen?”

  Ian dug in his sporran. This was most likely the first of many bribes he’d pay on this voyage. “Here’s yer coin. Now, where have ye seen me birlinn?”

  The clerk glanced over each shoulder. “There was a boat with dragons’ heads like your drawing moored at this very pier a few sennights ago—they were selling their catch.” He thumped his chest. “Everything that comes into Maryport must go through me. I collect the port taxes and direct the sailors to the merchants.”

  “What do ye mean, they?” Ian asked.

  The man scratched his chin. “The crew, and I’ll say, a bedraggled lot they were.”

  Bran’s brows drew together. “Was there a Scotsman with them?”

  “I do not recall.” He twisted his mouth and drummed his fingers. “Come to think of it, the fishermen I saw were Englishmen. I thought it a bit odd considering they sailed a Highland birlinn. ’Tis rare to see vessels like that around these parts.”

  Ian’s gut clenched as his gaze met Bran’s. A tempest raged behind the henchman’s dark stare. “I smell a rat.” Ian glanced back to the clerk. “Where did these men hail from?”

  “They didn’t say.” He shrugged. “I just record the goods and take tax payments.”

  Bran placed his giant hands on the wee table—he had an inimitable way of making a man nervous. “Where do ye reckon they hailed from?”

  “I…” The man scooted backward. “I’d say east of here. If I recall correctly, they said something about having tried to sell their catch in St. Bees. Though I’ve no idea why anyone would bother sailing ashore there. The place is run by thieves.” He held up his hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Ian inclined his head toward The Golden Sun. “Come, men. Let’s away to the navigation room and set our course.”

  ***

  The sail picked up the wind as the English galley left the Port of Whitehaven while the crew manned the oars. Under the canopy at the bow, Alexander studied nautical maps. “If ye head for the reef off the Isle of Man, ye’re sure to find cod.”

  The captain’s grin twisted. “And risk sinking my boat?”

  Alex hovered over the map and pointed. “If ye drop anchor here, ye’ll no’ be swept toward the isle by the undertow.” Since the captain had been willing to take him on, Alex had no qualms about sharing a family secret or two.

  The captain looked closer and grinned. “The west side, you say? What about Irish pirates?”

  Alexander shrugged. “’Tis why ye need a cannon on yer deck.”

  The captain gazed out over the Firth of Solway and pointed. “I’d do anything to have an eighteen-gun galleon like that one.”

  With a snap of his head, Alex hastened to the ship’s rail. His heart pummeled his chest. He’d recognize The Golden Sun anywhere. Every morning at Brochel Castle, he arose and gazed down upon his most prized possession anchored in Brochel Bay. His father had captured the English racing galleon during a privateering mission off the coast of Southern England. “Do ye have a spyglass?” Alexander snapped.

  The captain pulled the glass from his belt. “What is it?”

  “I ken that ship.” Alexander held it to his eye. Sailing due west, Ian and Bran stood at the helm. His heart twisted in a knot. They’re searching for me.

  “Should we be worried?” the captain asked.

  Returning the spyglass, Alex shook his head. “’Tis a friendly vessel.” Admitting he owned that coveted ship could buy a world of trouble.

  The captain pointed. “How do you know it? I don’t recall seeing that ship in these waters before.”

  Oh, she’d been there all right, but not of late. “I was a member of her crew once.”

  “Truly? What caused you to leave, seeking employment on my fishing galley?”

  Alexander swiped his hand across his mouth. “A woman.” That wasn’t really a lie. His gaze swept back to The Golden Sun. If only the captain would alter his course and follow that ship. “How long do ye reckon we’ll be out?”

  “When the hold is full of fish, and before the catch rots.”

  “Three days?”

  “Perhaps four.”

  Blast me rotten luck. Even if Ian was stopping at every port, he could be halfway down the coast by the time they returned.

  ***

  Max sniffed the wild daisies while Jane pulled weeds around the rose bushes. In the two days since Alexander left, she had immersed herself in work. But nothing eased her pain. Ever since she’d left her father’s castle, fear had governed her life. First, she’d been afraid of Roderick—terrified he might kill her.

  She pulled on a big hawkweed but it wouldn’t budge. With both hands, she gave it a good yank, the leaves breaking away from the root, sending her rocking back on her bottom. “Curses.” She tossed the weed aside. It might have been for the best if her husband had killed her rather than the other way around. Now she lived in fear for her life. She’d enjoyed a glimpse of happiness when Alexander was there—she had even slept at night.

  On accord of her own pigheadedness, there she was, once again alone, a highborn woman trained in frivolous pursuits such as languages, needlepoint and music, trying to fend for herself.

  Max raised his head and looked toward the wood, his ears pricked. Jane followed his line of sight. A crow called and flew from the tops of the trees. Jane slapped a hand to her heart. Why must I startle so easily?

  Max crept toward the trees and growled.

  Jane’s heart hammered. “What is it, boy?”

  The dog launched into a cacophony of barking. Jane stood. “Come, Max.” She ran toward the cottage, slapping her hip, praying the dog was behind her.

  Heavy footsteps swished through the grass. Max emitted a hideous snarl then yelped. Jane looked back. The spaniel lay in a heap on the grass. “Max!” Jane sprinted to the dog’s side.

  Close on her heels, a smelly brute laughed. “Looks like we found a ripe one.”

  Gulping air, Jane dropped to her knees. Max raised his head and whimpered. She might cower in fear for herself, but when it came to her dog, she’d stand and fight.

  A brutish arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her to her feet. “Not so fast, wench.”

  Twisting in his grasp, Jane gritted her teeth and slammed her elbow into the man’s chest. “Unhand me, you brigand!” S
he recoiled to deliver a slap, but the brute caught both her wrists and twisted. Squealing with the pain, Jane nearly fell. Her wimple tumbled to the ground.

  The man’s grip held fast, but his eyes budged. “Bloody Christmas, ’tis Lady Whitehaven.”

  Jane froze. Though she wanted to scream, the cry stuck in her throat—she was too terrified to utter a sound. Heaven help her, this was the end.

  “Are you jesting?” His accomplice stepped in beside him with a black-toothed grin. He pinched a bit of her kirtle and rubbed it between his fingers. “What say you? We come out here to see why the Highlander rose from the dead, and look what we find.”

  Jane clenched her stomach muscles against the sickly lump forming there. “Please.” Dear God, help me. She drew in a staccato breath and tried to jerk away. “Leave me alone. You have no idea what you are doing.”

  The man’s grip tightened. “There’s ten pounds on your head—that’s enough coin for Roger and me to retire for the rest of our days.” Jane jolted as his fingers bored into her flesh. “Oh no, you’re not going nowhere. Roger, get the rope. We’re taking her straight to the sheriff afore she tries to stab us like she did Lord Whitehaven.”

  The more Jane fought, the tighter the man’s grip became. Her gaze darted to Max. He still lay in the grass. Would Alexander burst through the wood and spirit her to Raasay? Why had she not told him about Roderick? All he ever asked from her was the truth. Why had she withheld it even after he’d proved trustworthy?

  A tear trickled from her eye and her lips trembled.

  Please, Alexander. Come back.

  Chapter Eleven

  When they rounded the St. Bees point, Ian saw it. Unbelievable. If he had ordered William to sail the shore of northwestern England, they would have spotted the blasted birlinn sennights ago. “Furl the sails and drop anchor!”

  Bran stepped beside him. “It looks as if the crew’s bringing in their catch.”