The Warrior

by Greyson, Maeve

  “I’m surprised ye can walk with such oversized bollocks.” Tait crossed the room in a single stride and yanked the bottle out of Duncan’s hand. “Offering me a dram of my own whiskey. Ye are either a fool or a verra brave man.” He scooped up a pair of glasses and returned to the table. As he poured the whiskey, his voice softened. “Tilda has always been Cat to me. ’Twas me pet name for the feisty hen when the both of us were bairns and always in trouble.” He handed a glass to Duncan. “I advise that ye call her wife if ye value yer hide.”

  “Ye truly wish to damn yer cousin to a life on the run? A life always looking over her shoulder?” Duncan sipped at the whiskey. The ship still rocked a bit. He wasn’t certain if he could keep the precious drink down. He swallowed hard and sent up a silent prayer the liquid courage would not reverse itself and end up in the bucket. “What if we have bairns? Who is to aid her?”

  “Tilda is a Mackenzie, and such a life already flows rich and hearty in her blood.” Tait emptied his glass and thumped it to the table. “She knows as much about smuggling as any man and plots ways to slip the excisemen better than most. The woman was born to it, man. Needs danger nipping at her heels to feel alive.”

  “I have nothing to offer her.” The simple truth. He wasn’t good enough for the likes of Tilda Mackenzie. “Yer cousin could do better than me for a husband.”

  “I dinna give a rat’s arse what ye say.” With a shrug and a shake of his head, Tait returned to the door and yanked it open. “Ye will marry Tilda.” He nodded toward Duncan’s chest. “Soon as ye’re healed and can consummate the marriage, we shall have our first wedding ceremony here at Tait’s Cove. ’Twill be official. One of me men is a priest.” He stepped through the door, then tossed a dark look back at Duncan. “That is, if ye wish to leave the cove as something other than feed for the sharks.”

  Captain Tait gave him a smile that didn’t reach the cold, hardness in his eyes. “She’s tender for ye.” He shook his head. “She nay declared love but claimed something better.” His defensive stance appeared to soften. “Ye give the lass hope for a future she thought she’d never find.” He spared Duncan a jovial grin. “I dinna see what she sees in ye, but if Tilda likes ye, ye canna be all bad.”

  Chapter Eleven

  They had been here a fortnight. Duncan flexed his shoulders. Fourteen days of healing and reflection. Fourteen days of realization. He had scarce seen Tilda during that time and found himself miserable because of it. He missed her and was not too proud to admit it. Days seemed overcast when she wasn’t in them.

  Tait’s cove had turned out to be far more than a small inlet in which Tait could hide a ship. The place was a sprawling pirate’s empire. Ships overran the bay. A forest of masts and sails filled the horizon. But according to Tait, the many vessels, ranging in size and number of masts, were nowhere near the entire fleet over which he ruled.

  Ashore, his kingdom continued. His fortress encompassed the entirety of the small, hidden isle. The inconspicuous dot of land lay a league or so off the western coast of Orkney. It was a bugger to find without proper coordinates due to an eerie blanket of fog that surrounded the place on most days. The massive keep Tait had built scowled across the field of mastheads swaying in the bay below. Chiseled out of the isle’s tall, jagged cliffs, the castle rose above the waters like a great sea god waiting to devour any who defied it.

  Duncan stood on the balcony outside the small chamber assigned to him, allowing his gaze to flit across the bay. Seabirds, their shrieking cries echoing across the confines of the cove, dipped and dove among the ships bobbing across the water. The salt air, tangy and ripe with the scents of the sea, pushed against him as though urging him back inside.

  It was his wedding day. Everyone already considered Tilda and himself man and wife by mutual consent, but that wasn’t good enough for Tait. To ensure his cousin’s happiness, he had proclaimed a wedding would happen with vows stated in front of a priest. A promise before God was a great deal more binding than a proclamation in front of anyone else. Afterward, all would feast, and then the couple would retire to their chambers for the consummation. They, meaning Tait, would require proof of said consummation. Or so Tait had proclaimed. And whatever he proclaimed, whether on his ship or in his kingdom, was done without question.

  Duncan scrubbed a hand across his face, squinting against the wind. Marriage to Tilda for true was not the worst sentence he had ever faced, but damned if it didn’t fill him with as much trepidation as the gallows. A wife. What the hell was he to do with a wife? Well. He knew what to do, especially one as luscious and sweet as Tilda. But what of after? How to behave when they weren’t in bed? How to support and protect her? What if they had children?

  An impatient pounding rattled the chamber door behind him. “It be time, Master MacCoinnich!”

  Josiah Hobbs. Captain Tait’s additional set of eyes, ears, and his right-hand man on both land and sea. Ever since they had come ashore, the quartermaster had shadowed Duncan like a tireless hound, guns in his belt, ready to herd Duncan back under control should the need arise. Duncan felt sure Tait had ordered Hobbs to do so. For what reason, he couldn’t fathom. Tait’s island fortress offered no clear and easy escape.

  Duncan jerked his jacket in place, strode across the room, and yanked open the door. “Mr. Hobbs.”

  One eye squinting shut, the tall man gave Duncan a scowling up and down look. He dipped his grizzled chin with an approving nod. “Well done, Master MacCoinnich. Ye cleaned up good and proper. Cap’n Tait’ll be pleased, he will.”

  “Cap’n Tait is not my concern.” Duncan waved the man into the room. “I need a drink before we go below. Will ye join me?”

  The man’s bushy mutton chops twitched as he swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. “We should be on our way, sir. The hall is fair full. All in the cove are present and a waitin’.”

  “Whether ye join me or not…” Duncan gave the esteemed Mr. Hobbs a hard look. “I shall have a drink before I go down to stand before the priest. A man about to take a wife before God and sundry has the right to a healthy snort afore saying his vows. D’ye no’ agree, Mr. Hobbs?”

  “Well…aye, and since ye put it that way…” Hobbs glowed with an indulgent smile. “Allow me to pour, sir.”

  With a yank at his over-snug trews, Duncan followed Mr. Hobbs to the well-stocked table beside the window. “Damned trews. Wish I had my kilt. A man should wear his colors on a day such as today.”

  “Too true, sir.” Hobbs handed him a glass holding a generous amount of golden liquid as he raised his own over-full one. “To yer weddin’ day.”

  “Aye.” Duncan accepted the whiskey with a resigned sigh. He tossed down the contents of the glass in a single gulp. The burn racing down his gullet almost stole his breath. He plunked the glass down on the table and snorted out a whiskey-heated huff. “I am ready, Mr. Hobbs.”

  Hobbs finished his own glass as though drinking water. With a swipe of his hand across his mouth, he smacked his lips, gave a satisfied clearing of his throat, and held out a hand. “After ye, sir.”

  Duncan squared his shoulders and strode with purpose. The task was imminent. He’d face it as a man and do his best not to disappoint dear, sweet Tilda. God help her for being so determined to marry a man such as him.

  As Duncan turned down the last flight of stairs winding down to the great hall, the deep rumblings of the gathered crowd hit him full on. Lord Almighty. Sounded like an amassed army. Past the sea of onlookers, he spotted Tait, the priest, and two of Tait’s men waiting on a raised wooden platform at the head of the room. Tait had ordered it constructed for today. Damned thing reminded Duncan of a gallows. He shook away the thought, pulled in a deep breath, then plowed down the length of the room and took his place in front of the priest.

  “My son,” said the squat, barrel of a priest. The man hiccupped, then snorted out an inebriated giggle whilst pressing a plump fist to his mouth.

  Duncan looked at Tait and hiked a brow.

>   “He’s still a priest,” Tait said, reading Duncan’s expression with accuracy.

  Mr. Hobbs took his place behind the priest with the rest of the captain’s men standing guard on the platform.

  Duncan fixed Tait with a look he hoped the man read as easily as before. “Ye dinna need an armed guard, man. Have ye no regard for Tilda’s pride?”

  “More than yerself,” Tait said. “At least I’m seeing to her wishes without a gun held to me head.”

  “Send them away afore she sees them.” Duncan took a defiant stance closer to the slightly swaying priest. “I refuse to have her shamed.”

  Tait studied him for the breadth of a heartbeat, then gave a curt jerk of his chin. Hobbs and the other two men stepped off the platform and melted into the crowd. Tait stood beside Duncan.

  A hush fell over the hall. Duncan turned and forgot how to breathe. How could such a beauty want to become his?

  Tilda, swathed in a flowing gown of the same vibrant, blue-green brilliance of her eyes, stood framed in the beribboned and flowery doorway at the end of the hall. Her full, sweeping skirts flared out all around her, then tucked in tight to her middle to flatter her slim waist. The dress’s bodice blossomed up around her full breasts. Dark hair swept up in a cascade of curls, she held no resemblance to the rough and tumble lass in scuffed boots and trews who had saved him from the prison. This woman silenced the room with her unbridled beauty.

  “Finest silks from me last raid,” Tait whispered with a nudge to Duncan’s side. “Maddie’s seamstress did well, aye?”

  Duncan ignored the fact that Tait would defile such a sacred moment by talking of raids and his favorite whore’s seamstress. All that mattered was Tilda. His precious Tilda. Time to embrace his role as husband.

  He stepped down from the platform and strode down the path, through the crowd, and offered Tilda his arm. “Forgive me, love. Yer beauty is too great for me to wait for ye to reach me on yer own.”

  Tilda’s cheeks pinked with the compliment, and she pressed her fingers to her breathtaking décolletage. A bouquet of tiny white roses and ivy, wrapped and trailing a rainbow of ribbons, trembled in her other hand. She lowered her gaze as she took his arm, leaning in close as she spoke. “Thank ye for yer kind words, Duncan. I know this is not what ye wished.”

  Duncan stopped and turned her to face him. “Ye are everything I have ever wished, Tilda. Never think otherwise.” He brushed a tender kiss across the softness of her parted lips. Lord Almighty—sweet as the finest nectar. He’d never get enough.

  “Ho, there!” Tait shouted from the dais. “None o’ that yet. Up here to Father Roland first.”

  Laughter and good-hearted jeering filled the room, echoing to the high cathedral-like ceiling.

  With a smile at Tilda, Duncan pressed another kiss to her temple, then led her up the aisle and climbed the platform’s steps. He halted them directly in front of Father Roland who appeared to possess the ability to sleep while standing upright.

  Tait nudged the man on the shoulder. “Father!”

  “Oh!” The priest’s bloodshot eyes popped open, and he smiled, then lifted both hands to the crowd. “I now pronounce ye—”

  “Ye have not heard our vows yet, fool,” Duncan said in a hissed whisper. Priest or not, the man was a drunken oaf.

  “Ah.” Father Roland blinked and peered hard at his prayer book as though attempting to bring his gaze into focus. “Well then. Let us be on with it. From the beginning then, shall we?”

  Duncan swiveled another scowl to Tait who responded with a noncommittal shrug.

  Father Roland cleared his throat, then smacked his plump lips together, licking out his tongue like a dog about to froth at the mouth. “Might I have a drink first?” he asked in a slurred whisper directed at Tait.

  “After,” Tait said. “Get on with it, aye?”

  With a great despondent sigh, the priest flipped a few pages of his prayer book and tapped a chubby finger against the faded words. “Do ye…” he paused, then scrunched a confused gaze at Duncan. “Yer name, my son?”

  “Duncan Fraser Sullivan MacCoinnich.” He would have his full Christian name spoken at his wedding. ’Twas only proper.

  “Oh, good heavens.” The priest frowned, casting a shameful look at Duncan as though he’d caught him committing a grievous sin. He rolled his eyes and started again. “Do ye, Duncan Fraser Sullivan MacCoinnich, agree to take…” he turned to Tilda and hiccupped as he swayed toward her, then righted himself before completely losing his balance.

  “Tilda Catherine Rose Mackenzie,” Tilda supplied loud and clear.

  Father Roland bugged out his eyes and shook his head. “D’ye agree to take one Tilda Catherine Rose Mackenzie to wife, ’til death shall part ye from her?”

  “Aye.” Duncan’s booming acknowledgment echoed off the rafters.

  “Verra well then,” Father Roland muttered, a profuse sweat covering the man’s balding head. He swiped his forehead and cleared his throat again as he turned to Tilda and waved the prayer book in her direction. “And do ye, m’dear, swear the same?”

  “Aye,” Tilda said with a soft smile at Duncan. “I do.”

  Father Roland dipped his double chins and lifted his prayer book high in the air. “Let no man put asunder what God hath joined here this day. There. Ye be married.” Then he turned and waddled down the steps of the platform, hurrying his way to the back wall of the room where long cabinets of decanters stood at the ready.

  Tait stepped forward and took Tilda’s hand, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. With an apologetic look for them both, he jerked his head back toward the priest. “I shall hang him from the yardarm. I dinna care if he is a priest.”

  Duncan didn’t comment, just pulled Tilda into his embrace and returned to the sweetness of her lips. Drunk priest or not, they were now officially married in God’s eyes as well as Scotland’s. He would do right by her. Do right or die. With the decision made, an insatiable hunger filled him. A hunger for Tilda he had too long ignored. He swept her up into his arms and turned to Tait. “Our apologies. We shall not be attending the feast. Would ye be so kind as to have Mr. Hobbs see us to our rooms.”

  Tait grinned, then shouted. “Hobbs!”

  His smile stretching from one bushy sideburn to the other, Hobbs appeared. “Aye, sir?”

  “Escort Master MacCoinnich and his wife to their suite of rooms,” he said.

  “Aye, sir.” Hobbs lumbered down the path, cutting through the crowd, waving Duncan forward.

  Whistles and shouts followed them as they made their way through the great hall. Tilda tucked her face to his shoulder and curled tighter against his chest.

  “Ignore them, love,” Duncan said. “They mean well enough.”

  “Ye dinna have to carry me the entire way, Duncan.” She squirmed to set her feet to the ground.

  “Perhaps, I dinna.” Duncan hitched her higher in his arms and picked up the pace. “But I wish to do so. So ye might as well cease yer fidgeting.”

  After a flight of stairs, Hobbs came to a halt in front of a wide set of double doors that looked as though Tait’s men had scavenged them from a cathedral. Retrieving the ring of keys at his waist, he unlocked the doors, and pushed them open wide. “Everything ye need, sir and ma’am. Cap’n and Mistress Maddie seen to the stocking of enough food and drink what’ll last ye for days.” He waved them deeper into the room and motioned to an elaborate bathing tub trimmed in copper, piles of folded linens and jars of soaps waiting on the tables beside it. “Even a bath. Ye are to ring yon bell whenever ye are ready to have it filled.” He scowled at the tub with a leery look and gave a dubious shake of his head. “Seems to me ye’d be seein’ to better things than bathing, but Mistress Maddie insisted and Cap’n agreed.” He shrugged and hurried out, pulling the doors closed behind him.

  Duncan eased Tilda down to her feet, forcing himself not to pull her back into his arms until she was ready. Patience ruled this evening, as did gentleness. He prayed for enough
control to make this first time for Tilda as painless and enjoyable as possible. The situation most definitely called for whiskey. Lots of whiskey. “A drink for ye, love?”

  “Aye,” she said soft and quiet, seeming suddenly shy. She meandered around the room, trailing her fingertips across the tops of the cushioned chairs and couches. “Oh, my.” She came to a halt in front of the open door leading into what Duncan could only presume was the private bedchamber.

  Duncan joined her in the doorway and swallowed hard. “’Tis a fine, ample bed. Wouldn’t ye say?” And it was. Wide as could be, the bed could comfortably sleep four to five good-sized men. His man parts roared to life. This was the sort of bed found in the finer brothels known to offer their customers several ladies at once. No wonder Tilda appeared shocked. She wouldn’t know of such a bed.

  “Whiskey?” Tilda asked, her gaze glued to the bed.

  “Aye, lass. On the way.” Duncan hurried to fill two glasses, tucked the bottle under his arm, then returned, and handed her the drink.

  Before he could offer a toast, she drained hers and held it out. “More, please.”

  Poor lass. She had been ready to shed her virtue back on the ship, but now that the time had come, her courage had left her. Duncan supplied her with a refill. “Slow down, love. We have all the time in the world. Ye’ve nothing to fear about tonight. I swear it.” He emptied his own glass and filled it again. Mayhap, he was a mite spooked himself. Bottle in one hand, glass in the other, he extended his arm. “Walk with me to the window, aye? Looks to be a lovely evening on the rise. Perhaps a bit of fresh air will settle us both.”

  Tilda graced him with an appreciative smile and took his arm, nodding toward the bottle. “We’re a pitiful pair, are we not? Dependent on our whiskey to get us through our first night together.”

  “’Tis our wedding night. A celebration.” Duncan plunked the bottle on the windowsill of the wide bay window, taking up the entire left wall of the bedchamber. He pushed open one of the long, tall panels of glass. A welcome breeze rushed into the room, carrying with it the calming sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks below and the relentless cry of the gulls searching for their supper. “’Tis our night. We can do whatever we wish.”