The Warrior

by Greyson, Maeve

  “No talking!” the man at Duncan’s back ordered as he wound a cloth around Duncan’s head to hold the wooden bit jammed in his mouth.

  Through the blood pounding in his ears, Duncan made out the rattling squeak of approaching wagon wheels. The bastards meant to steal him away afore they killed him. He struggled harder, gasping for air around the gag.

  “Both?” one of the cloaked forms asked as two of the men hefted Duncan into the air by his feet and shoulders, then swung him into the back of the wagon with a hard thump that knocked the wind from him.

  He rolled to his side, straining to hear the men’s intentions.

  “Might as well,” said the man who had ordered no talking. “Master Boydson never be short on tasks.”

  The bed of the cart shook as the men threw Alasdair into the wagon beside him. Bound and gagged and limp as a rag.

  Duncan ground his teeth harder into the wood. The whoresons had rendered Alasdair unconscious. What a gullible pair they’d been. Snared by a conniving woman and overpowered by what Duncan had so far counted as four men—possibly five. Shameful. He could remember the day when it would have taken twice that many to overcome them.

  The wagon rolled forward a short pace, then came to a halt. All went dark as the men threw a heavy cloth covering over the wagon bed. The weight of it fell across Duncan, making him think of a burial shroud. The rickety transport shifted from side to side as their captors secured the damp bit of what felt like sailcloth in place. It smelled of mildew, rotted fish, and the sea.

  Impressment. The word came to Duncan unbidden. Had Fennella Mackenzie sold them to the British Navy? Surely, not. The raiders had nay sounded British but that meant nothing. Press gangs were often motley crews of society’s lowest dredges.

  Alasdair shifted with a low, enraged moaning. Good. He was coming to. They could escape this mess together.

  The ramshackle cart lurched into motion again, then set to swaying back and forth with a steady rhythm. Duncan rolled to his back, shifted his way to the end of the wagon, and kicked the end board as hard as he could.

  The chained gate at the back of the box merely rattled in place, laughing at his efforts. Alasdair shimmied down beside him until they lay on their backs, shoulder to shoulder. Timing their combined effort with an exaggerated bobbing of his head, Duncan bent his knees, and he and Alasdair kicked the board together. The satisfying sound of wood splintering rewarded their efforts.

  “Ho!” a man shouted from behind the wagon. “Hold fast!”

  The wagon halted.

  Duncan locked eyes with Alasdair, knowing his cousin thought the same as he. The bastards had either decided to kill them for their attempt at escape or they’d reached the destination chosen to hide their bodies. Duncan wished he could apologize to his cousin for dragging him into this sorry mess.

  The sheeting over the wagon ripped back, revealing three men, one of them holding a torch high as they peered down into the wagon.

  “Stubborn bastards. I gi’ ye that.” The largest of the three reached over the side of the wagon, clamped hold of Duncan by the clothing across his chest, and dragged him back up to the front of the wagon. “Get the other one up here, too.”

  The thugs dragged Alasdair up beside him.

  “Them two’ll just do it again,” a voice wheezed out above Duncan’s head. A voice that had to belong to the driver of the wagon. “They done broke the board. See the split?”

  “Nay,” the big man grinned. One of his gold teeth glistened in the torchlight. He lifted a cudgel and hefted it for the strike. “Time to sleep, me pretties.”

  The beating lasted far too long before the blessed darkness came to offer relief.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “One of ye knows what happened, and I mean to find ye out if I have to horsewhip the lot of ye.” Matheson Mackenzie launched himself up from the chieftain’s chair and bore down upon those gathered before him.

  Tilda rose from her seat beside her father’s chair and fell in step beside him as he stormed back and forth in front of the servants standing in a tensed line across the hall. She had a few threats of her own for the heartless curs who had stolen her Duncan away. “Horsewhipping be too good for the traitors. I say we lash them to the rocks at the water’s edge. If a storm fails to take them, the seabirds will be more than happy to pluck the meat from their bones.” She came to a halt in front of Mrs. Fyste. She had never liked or trusted that woman. The housekeeper had always been one of Fennella Mackenzie’s favorites. “And ye shall be the first to go, Mrs. Fyste, although, I dare say, ye be scrawny pickings for the scavengers. Not worth the time it would take to peck out yer eyes.”

  Mrs. Fyste remained silent with her thin lips clamped shut and her eyes averted.

  “That one’s loyal to yer mother. Loyal to a fault.” Agnes moved to stand beside Tilda. “I’d lay odds she knows every bit of what went on yesterday eve.”

  “I…I can tell ye what I know,” a hesitant voice squeaked from the other end of the line.

  “Ye will hold yer tongue, Marta!” Mrs. Fyste barked out, leaning forward to glare down the line of servants. “Our allegiance is to Herself.” She shot a glare back at Agnes, then shifted it to include Tilda. “We owe nothing to these two whores.”

  The Mackenzie reeled about with a growling roar. He pushed his way in front of Agnes and Tilda and backhanded Mrs. Fyste hard enough to knock her to the floor. “I shall have ye stripped naked and hung from the guard tower! Let winter’s ice take yer vile bones! I wouldna be so cruel as to poison the seabirds with yer carcass.”

  “It would be my honor to die for my mistress! Proud to do so!” Mrs. Fyste shook her fist and spit like a cornered animal. She paused and daubed trembling fingers to the bloodied corner of her mouth. Scuttling sideways from her crumpled position on the floor, she shifted to a defensive crouch. “Ye caused my lady nothing but sorrow with yer heartless, adulterous ways. Ye even dared insult her by bringing yer bastard under her roof and forcing her to claim it as her own issue.”

  The Mackenzie went dangerously cold and silent. He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. His personal guard, the two battle-scarred men flanking the chieftain’s dais, strode forward to stand at their laird’s side.

  “Outside with her. Strip her down, then lash her to the portcullis so all can see the shame she brings upon herself and this clan with her lying, treasonous ways.” The Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed as he added, “And cut out her tongue so she can nay insult our people with any more of her lies.”

  “That whore birthed ye!” Mrs. Fyste’s wild-eyed glare locked first on Agnes, then on Tilda as the guards took hold of her arms and yanked her up from the floor. “Whore’s blood runs in yer veins, it does, ye pretentious bastard. Ye be a stain upon both the Mackenzie and the MacDonald houses.”

  “Wait.” Tilda held up a hand, doing her best to stand strong against the thunderous storm of emotions threatening to knock her down. “Dinna take her away just yet.”

  The guards paused, holding the thrashing woman hard between them as they focused their attention on the Mackenzie.

  Tilda’s father gave a curt nod. “Aye. Do as she bids.”

  “Do ye need yer cane, lass?” Agnes whispered as she pressed the polished handle of the stick up beneath Tilda’s fingertips. “Yer trembling concerns me.”

  “Nay.” Tilda swallowed hard. If she had the cane in her hand, she risked beating the witch to death before she discovered all the woman might confess. Tilda stepped forward. The line of servants shuffled aside to let her pass. She came to a halt in front of Mrs. Fyste. “Speak yer peace before ye die, because die ye will. Know this, Fennella Mackenzie doesna give a damn that ye gave yer life in her honor. That woman is a heartless wretch, more cold-blooded than any devil. She uses and abuses any she thinks might benefit her.” Tilda took another step closer. “I shall call no priest to hear yer sins, so I advise ye speak them now before ye face yer reward of hellfire and damnation.”

  A glimmer
of fear shimmered in Mrs. Fyste’s eyes. The first sign of fear Tilda had ever seen the woman show in all the years she had known her. The housekeeper had ruled Wrath Keep with an iron fist and tormented many a servant during her tenure.

  “Speak now, woman. Yer life may be forfeit, but ye might still save yer soul.” Tilda held fast, rage coursing through her. She would break this woman for Duncan’s sake.

  “She ordered him taken afore the winter storms started.” Mrs. Fyste lifted her chin and wet her lips. “It would seem the men she sent took them both.”

  “What men?” The more Tilda heard and understood, the harder her heart pounded. Even after three months, Duncan’s strength had not returned in full. His blood loss from the gunshot wound had taken quite the toll. Tilda had decided that her husband’s sheer stubbornness was all that had kept him alive—that and her love for him. She stepped closer, aching to strike the woman before her. “Answer me! What men and where did they take them?”

  “To the Scorpion.” Mrs. Fyste spit blood from her mouth to the floor in front of Tilda’s shoes. “Her ladyship didna wish a quick death for yer man, so she had him pressed into service on her company’s largest galleon.” She gave Tilda a chilling smile. “If he’s stubborn enough to survive the voyage, he’s to be sold to one of the plantations. If they canna use him as a slave, they can grind his bones for fertilizer.”

  Tilda forced herself to hide all emotion and maintained a tight hold on her rage. She wouldn’t give this wretch the comfort of such a memory as she froze to death whilst stretched across the keep’s gate. “Ye will answer one more question before they take ye.”

  Mrs. Fyste shrieked out a hysterical laugh. “Of course. How can I serve ye, Mistress Whore?”

  “Since I dinna wish ye to become lonely as ye wait to freeze to death, name yer conspirators so they might hang along beside ye.” At the sound of several gasps and murmurings of denial behind her, Tilda lifted a hand for silence.

  The woman allowed her sneer to rake across those gathered in the hall. “No one served my mistress as well as me. She trusted no one else.”

  Tilda turned to look at the other servants. All had dropped to their knees at her father’s feet and remained there with their heads bowed. She lifted a hand to the guards. “Take her.”

  Lowering herself to a nearby bench, Tilda covered her face with both hands. A silent sobbing took hold of her, rocking her back and forth as her torment refused to let go. Her beloved Duncan. Her dearest love had suffered so much because of her.

  An arm pulled her around and gathered her close. Agnes. Ever-caring Agnes. The mother she had never had, and if what Mrs. Fyste said was true, the mother who had given her away. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was Duncan.

  “I’ve sent men to find the bastards, and if they fail, as soon as Tait arrives, we’ll send him after the Scorpion,” her father said. “He’s due any time with the last shipment of the season. Ye know as well as I, none can escape Tait.”

  Tilda lifted her head, a calm certainty settling across her. “And I will be going with him.”

  “Nay, daughter.” Matheson Mackenzie gave her a stern look. “The season of storms is upon us. Ye must stay here safe. Once Tait sets out, we’ll nay see him again ’til spring.”

  “I refuse to wait ’til spring to set eyes upon my husband.” Tilda pushed herself up from the bench and stood in front of her father. The man had never refused her anything. “I must go—whether I go with yer blessing or without it.”

  The Mackenzie’s shoulders slumped, and he took hold of her hands. “Ye be my only child, Tilda. I thought ye forever lost once before, and now ye ask me to risk losing ye again? Is there nothing I can say to dissuade ye?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. Not this time.” She took up her cane and leaned upon it as she headed up to her rooms. She paused at the base of the steps. “But ye can send someone to the docks to watch for Tait, aye?”

  “Aye.” The Mackenzie sat on the bench beside Agnes and dropped his head to his hands.

  She couldn’t help it. Tilda pushed the troubling sight of her father’s sorrow aside and concentrated on climbing the stairs to her rooms to pack. She would waste no time. They would leave as soon as Tait arrived.

  “Mistress Tilda!” Marta’s excited voice reached her, barely loud enough to be heard above the maid’s scurrying ascent up the stone steps behind her.

  “Aye?” Tilda paused and turned.

  “Master Tait’s a’ready arrived. He just walked through the door. Right as ye left the hall.”

  “Praise God.” Tilda hurried down the stairs.

  Tait stood speaking with Da and Agnes. The look on her cousin’s face told her they had explained the situation to him. She braced herself to staunch any argument he might make about her coming along.

  “Ye know we’ll be at sea for months, aye? We willna return to Wrath afore spring?” Tait squared off in front of her, chest puffed, and tattooed forearms flexing.

  The man wasted his fearsome pirate facade on her. She remembered his days as a scrawny, knob-kneed lad that played seek and find with her among the caves along the shoreline. Striking her cane hard with every step, she marched forward. “Ye know I’m nay a coward.” Before Tait could comment, she added, “And ye remember how long I hold a grudge.”

  A corner of Tait’s mouth curled a bit higher. “Always the wee cat focused on her prey.” He glanced back at the Mackenzie. “May God have mercy on their souls once Tilda finds them.”

  “I assume ye brought the Seafire?” Tilda had no time for niceties and bandying about with words. She needed details, and they needed a plan to overcome the Archipelago Spice Company’s ship before it reached the Especia Islands.

  The Seafire, Tait’s largest galleon and flagship, had weathered many a storm, but the massive vessel failed when it came to speed. However, if Mrs. Fyste spoke the truth, the ship holding Duncan prisoner was also a galleon and nay built for speed. They stood a fair chance of catching it. “Is it stocked and ready? Ye know we’re headed for the Archipelago of Olvidado? That’ll be the Scorpion’s destination.”

  All levity disappeared from Tait’s demeanor as he reverted to his usual plotting scowl. “The Seafire stands ready. How many days do they have on us?”

  “Duncan and his cousin disappeared last night. Da sent Mackenzie riders out at first light once I awoke and discovered Duncan had never come to our bed. If Mrs. Fyste told the truth, they could have placed them on the ship at some point last night. I fear our riders may be too late. Did ye see the Scorpion when ye docked?” Tilda prayed the ship was still in port. That would end this wickedness so much faster.

  Tait avoided meeting her gaze. Instead, he flinched away and stared at his men drinking ale at the tables. “It pains me to tell ye we spotted a galleon heading out as we made port. It flew the Archipelago Spice Company’s colors.”

  Tilda’s heart fell. She pressed a hand to her temple to keep from sobbing. What in the name of all that was right and fair had she and Duncan ever done to be so cursed?

  Tait moved to her side, leaned over, and peered into her face. “We can be to sea within hours, ye ken? My men should have our additional cargo near loaded by now.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Fetch yer things, my wee Cat, and dinna lose heart. This is but another adventure for the Mackenzie cousins. None can stand against us, aye?”

  Pulling in a deep breath, Tilda forced herself to stand taller. Tait was right. Now was nay the time to give up. She had a husband to save. “Aye. We’ll hang the bastards from the yardarm, then bring Duncan and his cousin home.”

  “Spoken like a true pirate.” Tait gave her an affectionate pat on the shoulder, then looked at the Mackenzie. “Dinna waste yer time growling at me. Ye might as well give her yer blessing. Ye know as well as I that she’ll do it whether ye bless her or no’.”

  The Mackenzie stepped forward and took hold of Tilda’s hands. “Ye must watch for the MacDonalds and the British, as well, lass. Ye can
bet Fennella rallied them both to run guard for the Scorpion.”

  Da’s mention of the MacDonalds brought Mrs. Fyste’s accusation to mind. “Tell me, Da, why do the MacDonalds pay so much heed to Mother? I understand well enough that they have their reasons to hate Duncan, but why would they heel to the wishes of a Mackenzie?” The possibility that the rumor was true, that Fennella was not her mother had brought more joy than pain. In fact, were she to be truthful, she had wondered about her true bloodline for years. She’d always doubted any link to Fennella.

  The Mackenzie took a deep breath. A sure sign that he didn’t relish what he was about to say.

  “Tell me, Da. Dinna ye think ’tis time I learned the truth of it? All of it?”

  “Yer mother.” Her father stopped, then bared his teeth as though he’d just tasted something foul. “Nay. Not yer mother.” He jerked around and faced Agnes. “There is yer mother, the woman who bore ye. Brought ye into this world and laid ye in my arms.” He pulled Agnes closer and curled an arm around her. “This woman gave ye to Fennella to protect ye. To ensure ye carried my name and didna receive the label of bastard.” He pulled in a deep breath and huffed it out. “She stepped aside to ensure ye inherited all ye had the right to as the daughter of a chief. As a Mackenzie.”

  Agnes gave her the same soft, kind smile she had given her many a time over the years. “I stayed as close to ye as I could, child. No matter what, ye have always been my daughter and my heart.”

  Tilda hugged Agnes tight, the confirmation lightening her heart—a lightening she sorely needed right now. “Ye know I’ve always loved ye as a mother, and now it gladdens me to learn it’s so.” She turned back to her father. “But what about the MacDonalds? And why in heaven’s name did ye not set Fennella Mackenzie aside and take Agnes to wife instead? She could’ve claimed her rightful role as my mother, and I still would’ve escaped being claimed a bastard. Would that nay have been easier?”

  “Fennella Mackenzie was once Fennella MacDonald. Sister to the powerful MacDonald of Skye.” Matheson Mackenzie shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders as though shedding a weight he’d carried for a while. “The MacDonalds and the Mackenzies smuggled in tandem for years. Worked well together. Prospered. Filled both our clans’ coffers and reveled in our growing wealth and power over land and sea, until I made to return Fennella to her kin and place Agnes in her stead.” The Mackenzie shook his head. “The MacDonald is not a reasonable man when it comes to his sister, nor did he wish to have the raging harpy returned to live under his own roof. He threatened a war that would’ve destroyed both clans and made us vulnerable to others who had lusted after the smuggling empire we had worked so hard to build. He also threatened both ye and Agnes.” Her father gave a hard shake of his head. “I will risk many a thing, but I will not put ye or Agnes in harm’s way—ever.” His look darkened. “And now ye are more endangered than before.”