Alasdair and Tait followed suit, helping the bargemen skim the shallow boat across the water to the sheltered side of the Seafire.
“Ahoy!” Tait shouted as they bumped into the side of his ship. “Cargo to load, and be quick about it. Heave ho, me boys, and get those guns ready.”
Duncan helped Tilda move to the rope ladder hanging down the side of the boat. “Up ye go, love. I’m right behind ye.”
Gunfire boomed across the way.
Duncan sheltered Tilda with his body. “Keep climbing, lass. Keep climbing.” He risked a glance to the left and smiled. The Scorpion had already weighed anchor and was bearing down on the MacDonalds. The Scorpion’s cannon boomed again, followed by the sound of splintering wood and the smell of something ablaze.
“They’ve caught the MacDonald ship afire!” Tait shouted from below.
Tilda skittered up the ladder and climbed over the gunwale. As soon as Duncan hit the deck with his own two feet, he grabbed her up into his arms and took the kiss he’d fostered in his dreams for the past month. Passion. Desperation. Relief. Joy. Tilda tasted of all those things and so much more. He pulled back the barest bit, holding her face between his hands. “Lord Almighty, I love ye something fierce, woman. I canna live without ye.”
“Ye nay have to, love. I swear. Ye nay have to ever again.” She wrapped herself around him, holding him as though she feared he’d spirit away and disappear.
“Off to me cabin with the both of ye.” Tait nudged them across the deck with a wink and a grin. “I know ye’ve missed each other. Leave the fighting to me and Captain Strom, aye? I’ll let ye know when we reach El Perdido.”
“Look at the smoke,” Tilda paused, eyes wide. “The MacDonald ship is surely lost.”
“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “But at least they be here in the bay where they can swim ashore and feed the renown of Devil Fraser Sullivan.” All hadn’t gone according to plan. As a matter of fact, this hadn’t been the plan at all. But damned if it all hadn’t ended fine indeed. Pushing open the door to Tait’s cabin, Duncan couldn’t resist a smile. “Remember the last time we stayed in this cabin?”
Tilda rewarded him with a quiet laugh as she stepped inside, shedding her hat and coat as she moved across the room. “Aye, love. Bloody from the prison and heaving out yer guts because of the sea.” She shook a finger at him. “And also determined to not be my husband.”
“I was a fool.” Duncan tossed his hat to the table, stripped off his waistcoat, and pulled her into his arms. “We were meant to be, ye and I. Our souls are seamed together.” He lifted her up and walked over to the wide captain’s berth filled with pillows. He cocked a brow at the opulent pile of plenty. “Tait was ready for us.”
“Nay.” Tilda pulled herself higher and nibbled at his neck as she yanked his shirt free of his belt and unlaced the front of his trews. “This has been my cabin during the voyage.”
Duncan filled his hands with the softness of Tilda’s lovely round arse and squeezed. Trews. Those damn trews. He slid his fingers around to the front of the garment and ripped the panel open, sending buttons popping across the room.
“Ye’ve ruined them!” Tilda paused in her nibbling and shed the breeks, kicking them across the floor.
“If I have my way about it, ye’ll never wear clothes again.” Duncan laid her back across the pillows, settled himself between her thighs, and plunged inside her. “’Tis so good to be back where I belong.” A low rumbling groan escaped him. He feared this wouldn’t take long.
“So, ye’re saying we shall live like heathens. Running about our island naked, aye?” Tilda gasped and emitted the most delightful squeaking noise as she wrapped her legs around his hips and arched to meet him thrust for thrust.
“Aye,” Duncan panted as he pounded harder. “That way I can take ye on the beach, in the water, in the jungle. Anywhere we wish. I can dive into this splendid wetness and revel in it!” He roared, losing the ability to speak.
Tilda raked her nails down his back and screamed, bucking and thrashing beneath him. “Yes, love, yes!”
Duncan drove hard and deep. Over and over, then buried himself, finally exploding with mind-numbing bliss. He collapsed atop her but rolled just in time to keep from crushing her. Gasping for breath, he pulled her to his side and cradled her head into the dip of his shoulder. “I thank God Almighty for putting ye back in my arms.”
“We have much for which to be thankful,” Tilda whispered as she took his hand and pressed it to her stomach. “We get a second chance, another bairn.”
An equal mixture of fear and joy coursed through him. What if it happened again? What if she lost this child, too? Agnes would nay be here to tend her. No woman would. He kissed her forehead, hugged her tighter, and remained silent. No matter what he said, she would know his worries, and that would add to her own. “I love ye, Tilda,” he finally whispered.
“It will be all right this time.” She kissed his chest. “I know it will. It feels different this time. I promise. Ye mustn’t worry, aye?”
“I will always worry for ye, about ye, and because of ye, dearest love.” He heaved out a heavy sigh. “We are destined for each other, but also destined for troubles, too, methinks. Look at all that has happened since we met.”
“That is why we must cherish the good, m’love. Cherish the good when we have it and keep it safe in our hearts for when we don’t.” She shifted and smiled up at him, her face aglow like the most beautiful angel. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
“Ye’re a wise woman, Tilda MacCoinnich.” Duncan combed his fingers through her hair. “Ye shall make a fearsome mother to all our bairns.”
“All our bairns,” Tilda repeated with a teasing grin. “And just how many bairns do ye have in mind?”
Duncan brushed a kiss across the seam of her smiling lips, then graced her with a knowing wink. “At least a dozen or so, dinna ye think? After all, we must build quite the fleet of little demons to see to the running of the Devil Sullivan’s empire.”
Tilda laughed—the most delightful, joy-filled sound Duncan had heard in a while. “Aye, love,” she said in a soft, contented whisper as she nestled back into the crook of his arm. “At least a dozen or so it is.”
Epilogue
“Tait Matheson Alasdair Strom MacCoinnich! I said put those down!” Tilda scurried down the beach in front of them, racing barefoot across the sand. She had adapted so well and moved with such ease, one had to look twice to realize that her left foot was carved of wood.
Duncan snorted out a quiet laugh, instinct telling him he best not allow Tilda to hear him. He could nay contain such happiness though. The sight of his wife running after his mischievous son filled him with unspeakable joy and pride.
Alasdair elbowed Strom. “It appears our namesake is in trouble again.”
“It would seem so,” Strom replied with a broad smile, watching the progress of the toddler charging down the beach with a dead fish clutched in each of his chubby little hands.
Duncan held his three-month-old daughter in the crook of one arm as he and the men strolled along the sandy strand toward the bay filled with ships. “Aye. My son might only be two years old, but he already keeps everyone on the island hopping.” He gave the men a wink. “And she’s pregnant again.”
An enraged squalling filled the air, so loud and piercing, all the seabirds thrashed into the sky to escape it. Tilda passed the men, marching her son up the beach. “To the nursery with ye, young man. If ye canna listen and obey yer mother, ye can tell Nanny of yer woes.”
She paused mid-rant and tossed a threatening glare back at Duncan. “If ye give me another son like this one, I shall beat ye senseless. Do ye hear me?”
“Aye, love. I hear ye.” He held his happy, chortling daughter higher. “Little Leannan is sweet as can be. Surely, that goes to my favor.”
Tilda rolled her eyes and stomped away.
“You are a blessed man, Devil Sullivan,” Strom said as they meandered up to the
docks. “Allah has truly smiled upon you, and for that, I am glad.”
“And I as well,” Alasdair said. “Actually, ye’re blessed more than ye know, cousin. I have good news from Scotland.”
Scotland. What he wouldn’t give to see his bonnie, beloved land once more. Duncan settled Leannen on his shoulder and patted her back in rhythm with every slow step. “What news?” He almost feared to ask.
“Fennella Mackenzie and her brother are both finally dead.”
“Both?”
“Aye, cousin.” Alasdair smiled and winked. “Both.”
Duncan came to a stop and studied the men. He had never been able to read Strom, but Alasdair looked entirely too pleased with himself and guilty as hell. “How?”
“Poisoned.” Alasdair pursed his lips, clasped his hands to the small of his back, and shook his head. “Heard tell it was tainted rum. Took several down within the MacDonald stronghold. Served at a banquet in Fennella’s honor.” He shook his head again. “Such a shame. Must have been a bad batch. Happens sometimes, ye ken?”
“Rum, ye say?” Duncan rubbed his daughter’s back, and she promptly rewarded him with a series of wet burps. “Since when does the MacDonald serve rum instead of whiskey?”
Alasdair shrugged. “Who’s ta say? Divine Providence might ha’ stepped in, perchance?” He grew serious. “Ye know it would still nay be safe for ye to reside in Scotland because of the murder charge, but at least now, ye can risk a visit. The British are nay canny enough to catch ye if ye stay but a few weeks.” He smiled at the cooing child in Duncan’s arms. “The bairns need to meet their cousins and see Tor Ruadh and Edinburgh. I’ve got quite the place there since I’m now solicitor to two powerful clans. Wee Tait would love the horses and gardens.”
“Perhaps when the wee ones are older.” Duncan looked out across the bay dotted with several galleons, sloops, and even a pair of carracks from Portugal. Devil Sullivan’s fleet might be small, but it was effective, renowned, and feared across the seven seas.
Little Leannen chortled out a cooing cry and stretched out her arms, reaching for something or someone behind him.
“Come to me, my sweet lass.” Tilda rounded Duncan and scooped the babe out of his arms. “Ye willna be the rascal yer brother is, will ye now, my darlin’ girl?”
“Not until she’s older and the lads come a callin’,” Alasdair said.
“I shall take my leave now. I expect to return in a month’s time.” Strom fixed a stern look on Alasdair. “And you should join me before yer tongue succeeds in getting you shot. We sail with the tide.” With a polite bow at both Tilda and Duncan, he thumped his fist to his chest, then turned and strode down the dock toward the small rowboat waiting to take him to the Scorpion.
“Such an unusual man,” Tilda mused as she watched him depart. “A good man.”
“Aye, love. That he is.” Duncan brushed a kiss to the wispiness of his daughter’s reddish-blonde hair, then turned to Alasdair. “Send my best to my kinsmen, and tell them we shall visit when the bairns are older, aye?”
“I shall.” Alasdair took a tight hold of Duncan’s forearm, then pulled him into a fierce hug. “I envy ye, cousin, but it gives me more joy than ye will ever know to see the life ye have made for yerself and yer family. Ye fought hard for this bit of Eden. I’m more than glad ye won it.”
“Find yer Eden, Alasdair, and when ye do, never let it go.” Duncan settled his arm around Tilda’s waist and hugged her and Leannen closer. “Love is worth fighting for, cousin, and trust me, yer soul will never be whole without it.”
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Read on for an Excerpt from The Judge – Book 3 in the Highland Heroes series!
Chapter One
Edinburgh Scotland
Spring 1698
“Those men are here again. At the service door.” An exasperated snort followed. “And here it’s not even midday yet. Shameful, I tell ye, utterly shameful.”
Alasdair Cameron didn’t look up from the document in front of him. To do so was unnecessary. Mrs. Aggie’s announcement made it clear the prim housekeeper expected him to call down a moral shower of hellfire and damnation on the two unexpected, yet familiar guests at the servant’s door of the kitchen.
A pert stomp of a heel and a growling ahem stressed Mrs. Aggie’s desire for immediate action.
Hungry for a bit of levity to brighten the dreary morning, Alasdair couldn’t resist teasing her a wee bit. He looked her in the eyes and winked. “I dinna suppose ye’d be good enough to see them here to the study, Mrs. Aggie?”
“I would not!” The study door banged shut with a hard thud as cold and final as the sealing of a tomb.
“I thought not.” Alasdair pushed up from his chair and stretched before scrubbing both hands across his face.
He hadn’t realized Ian had returned to Edinburgh so soon. When he got hold of his younger brother, he’d be kicking his arse for him. How dare the wee rascal visit Château Delatate before letting his only brother know he’d survived his latest mercenary campaign.
Damn Ian. Ever since the lad had discovered Lettie, one of Madam Georgianna’s harlots who possessed a disturbing resemblance to Ian’s dead wife, the heartsick fool spent all his coin, and quite a bit of Alasdair’s, at the elite establishment renowned for filling a gentleman’s every whim. Whenever Ian passed out drunk and ran out of money, Madam Georgianna sent for Alasdair to come and collect him. Said she pitied Ian. What with losing his wife and unborn child the way he had at the massacre at Glencoe, she couldn’t bear to treat him ill.
Alasdair and Ian both considered it an extreme act of kindness on Madam Georgianna’s part. Any of the establishment’s other clients discovered penniless and pickled in one of the boudoirs soon found themselves dumped at the docks and banned from re-entry into the pleasantries of Château Delatate ever again.
Alasdair strode down the long, narrow hallway leading to the manor’s kitchen. This place was a far cry from a drafty stone keep hidden in the unbridled wilderness of the Highlands. Part of Alasdair hated the tamed air of the place, but the part of him growing accustomed to the conveniences and comforts of higher class living in Edinburgh liked it just fine.
He shoved through the swinging door of the kitchen and came up short as every servant froze, faced him, then stood as though holding their breath so as not to miss a single word that fell from his lips. He wasn’t particularly fond of that either. Hell, he was just a man. No better or no worse than the lot of them. Fate had just been kinder to him. Well…in some ways. He pushed back against the long-ago memories threatening to surface. Now was not the time to ruminate over regrets and past mistakes.
He headed toward the duo standing just inside t
he service entrance. Twins. Identical mountains of blonde-haired brawn except for the color of their eyes. It was the only way Alasdair could tell apart Château Delatate’s armed keepers of the peace, as Madam Georgianna had fondly dubbed them. Alasdair pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his waistcoat as he addressed the closest blue-eyed giant. “How long this time, Einrich?”
Einrich flashed a brilliant smile, his perfect teeth gleaming white. “Master Ian arrived early,” he said in a heavy German accent. He turned to his brother. “Delatate’s erster kunde for today. Ja, Adalbert?”
“Ja,” Adalbert said as he stepped forward with a flawless smile of his own. “Said for you to come at once. Said very important.”
After several fetchings of Ian, Alasdair had learned more German than he had ever thought to encounter in Scotland. Erster kunde meant Ian was Delatate’s first client or customer of the day and ja was German for yes. But from the way the Friedrich brothers acted, Ian was not drunk, passed out, nor out of funds—yet. It appeared Ian himself had sent the pair.
Mrs. Aggie interrupted with another shrill clearing of her throat. “Edinburgh’s finest solicitor should nay be seen traipsing into a common brothel this early in the day.”
“So, ye’d have no issue if I waited ’til after midday, aye?” He did so love nettling poor Mrs. Aggie. The dear woman acted more mother than housekeeper and, on most days, Alasdair didn’t mind. Her meddling grew a bit thorny at times, but for the most part, her caring ways brought a nice bit of comfort.
“Ye know verra well that is not what I meant!” She puffed up like a plump, angry hen, her white starched apron nearly popping free of its pins at her rounded shoulders. She jabbed a finger at the twins. “Ye canna go with them. Ye’ve always fetched Master Ian in the dead of night before. Ye’ve appearances to think of.”
The Warrior Page 26
