The Pirate Laird's Hostage (The Highland Warlord Series Book 3)

by Tessa Murran

  ‘I can’t,’ she sputtered. ‘It is not right for us.’

  ‘So you are saying I am not worthy?’

  ‘I am saying I do not love you, Ramsay and no matter how high my regard for you, I fear I never will.’

  ‘Marriage is not about love, girl. It is about having the protection of a man’s strength.’

  ‘I can protect myself, and you must stop this. Cormac would never allow it, he would…’

  Ramsay’s voice turned hard. ‘Since when did you care what Cormac thinks? You defy your brother at every turn. No, that is an excuse and not a very good one.’

  ‘Ramsay you go too far,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t go far enough.’ He grabbed hold of her. ‘Do you think me a fool, Morna?’ Ramsay shook her hard. ‘If you are going to humiliate me at least do it honestly.’

  ‘Let go of me. I want to go back to Beharra.’

  ‘No,’ he said, and there was a hard look in his eyes. His fingers dug into her arm painfully.

  Morna wriggled to get free of him, but he was incredibly strong and instead pulled her against him, his belly up against her back, arms around her like a vice. Squeezing her tightly, he put his forehead against her hair. When he spoke, his voice made her shiver. ‘Calm down, Morna and listen to me for both our fates depend on this moment. Tell me true. Will you marry Owen and spurn me?’

  ‘Ramsay, stop this.’

  He slid his cheek against her hair. ‘What a thing it is to touch you, finally, after those days and nights of torture yearning for you. I’ve seen you with Sutherland, I’ve seen you two kissing, his hands all over you. Did you whore yourself because of his pretty face? Did I ever stand a chance, Morna, or have I been a deluded fool all these years? The truth now, girl.’

  Anger took Morna. ‘You want the truth, you can have it. I have never looked at you in that way Ramsay and I never will. If I let Owen touch me, it was because I wanted him to. But you will get your hands off me, now.’

  He pressed his head into hers, breathing into her hair and then he released her. Morna glared at him, her heart pounding and anger making her whole body shake. How dare he take such liberties.

  ‘You may never do that to me again, Ramsay. If I have wounded your pride, forgive me, but you should not have spoken to me of such matters, and you should not have put a hand on me. It is not right.’

  ‘Not right?’ Tears swam in his eyes, shocking and mortifying. His shoulders sagged, and all the life seemed to go out of him. Ramsay was one of the hardest men she knew, but she felt a surge of pity for him.

  ‘Now listen, Ramsay, ‘tis best we keep this matter between us, for if Cormac finds out, there will be hell to pay.’

  ‘He’ll not find out, Morna. I’ll not be telling him and sadly, nor will you,’ he said as he pulled back his forearm and lashed out.

  Chapter Two

  She was swaying back and forth, her head pounded and her cheek throbbed, as she struggled to open her eyes and cling onto consciousness. Morna tried to swallow, but her throat was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. There were birds calling in the trees and a cold wind was buffeting her. How had she managed to fall in and out of sleep when she was in such dire straits? Fear was exhausting - that was why.

  They had been riding for a night and a day, putting miles between them and Beharra. At dawn they had stopped at a ramshackle farmhouse and Ramsay had dragged her inside and pushed her down to the floor. A woman had given her stale bread and sour ale, refusing to meet her eye, while Ramsay talked in a low voice to the farmer. Both strangers were gaunt with hunger, and the coin Ramsay pressed into the man’s hands was for his silence, no doubt.

  Cormac would have started to look for her by now, raised the alarm, and men would be out searching. Where could Ramsay possibly take her where her brother would not find them?

  Ramsay had barely said a word to her since she had come round, demanding to know where he was taking her. When she had asked him why he had struck her, all he had said was, ‘Such is the violence of love. Be quiet, or I will do it again, ten times harder. I will break every tooth in your head if you try to plead for your release, if you try to bend me to your will as you always have. Your indifference has poisoned my love for you, and I think I hate you now. So be quiet, Morna, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Those words were spoken by a terrible stranger, not the man she had known and trusted.

  Morna tore her eyes open. They were in dense woodland, dark, the tops of the trees cobwebbed in thick mist which a thin dawn light struggled to penetrate. A track, rutted and full of puddles, stretched off into the distance. A cart stood to one side of it with two horses in harness. All seemed deserted until men on horseback began to emerge from the trees, the chink of their bridles loud in the silence. Dread tightened Morna’s chest.

  Ramsay dismounted and pulled her down off the horse. Morna’s legs would barely hold her as she looked at the men’s faces, trying to recognise someone, anyone, who might help her. There were about ten of them and the leader, the one who strode towards them with hard eyes, was young, about her age she guessed.

  ‘You are Ramsay Seward?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes at her captor before turning his gaze back to her.

  ‘I am,’ replied Ramsay.

  ‘I was surprised, no, shocked, to get your message. A Buchanan stalwart turning on his master. I feared a trap was being set.’

  ‘There is no trap. It is as I said,’ replied Ramsay.

  ‘No matter. I have men all around these woods. I am always prepared for the deceit of my enemies. If this is a trap, those who have laid it will die this day.’

  The man took a step closer and regarded her with distaste. His gaze was penetrating and unwavering. He had pale hair and a bleak face, dominated by hooded, grey-blue eyes and a chiselled jaw. He was clean-shaven, his hair clipped short, his clothes neat and his movements were slow and controlled, as were his words. ‘So, this is she, Cormac’s precious sister?’ he said to Ramsay.

  ‘Aye, it is. Morna Buchanan belongs to you now, to do with as you please.’

  ‘I do not,’ said Morna trying to make her voice firm. ‘You will return me to my brother, or he will hunt you down and kill you all.’

  It was as if the man did not hear her for he continued talking to Ramsay as though she did not exist.

  ‘You’ve damaged her a little, I see,’ said the man indicating her bruised cheek.

  ‘Not as much as she has damaged me, and she’ll heal better than I will,’ said Ramsay.

  ‘She’s smaller than I expected,’ said the man, eyes roaming over her. ‘Not without some kind of coarse beauty I suppose, if you like that kind of thing, which you obviously do Ramsay, for why else would you betray everything you hold dear? Did you have her already?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, still a virgin. I admire your abstinence. Did you think to up your price?’

  ‘No, I only need enough to take myself off to France. Look, I’ve no wish to tarry here so just take her and give me the coin.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what I am going to do with her?’ said the blonde man handing him a leather pouch, chinking with his reward for treachery.

  ‘No,’ replied Ramsay, but Morna’s eyes caught his, and there was anguish in them. This was difficult for him, this selling her to these strangers, else why would he be so eager to be gone. He must care for her still. If she pleaded, perhaps she had a chance.

  ‘Ramsay, please don’t do this. If I hurt you, it was unconsciously done. For the love you said you bear me, don’t leave me with these men. I am begging you.’

  He turned to her with nothing but anger on his face. ‘I have loved you Morna, but it has caused me nought but pain. It is time to cut this torture out of my heart and seal the wound by being as far away from you as possible. All those years of service to the Buchanan’s, all those years worshipping the ground you walked on, brought me no reward save a heart rotten with love and the scraps from your brother’s ta
ble. All that devotion, and you never once saw me.’

  ‘Please Ramsay. It is not too late. You can’t do this.’

  Ramsay took hold of her face. His hands were cold and rough, crushing her skull. ‘If I can’t have, you no one will.’ His mouth took hers in a bruising kiss. When he pulled away, Morna spat in his face.

  He wiped off the spittle. ‘Farewell, Morna,’ he said. ‘We will not meet again.’

  He mounted his horse, kicked it hard and rode away. As he melted into the woods, the blonde man turned to his men and nodded. They mounted up and followed Ramsay.

  Morna watched with them ride away with a thumping heart. ‘So, you will murder him now?’ she spat.

  ‘Aye, the fool might spill out his remorse in some tavern somewhere and damn us all.’

  ‘And then my brothers will catch up with you and gut you.’

  The man gave her a thin smile and took a step toward her.

  ‘If you touch me, I will kill you,’ she said, backing away.

  ‘Touch you? Do you think I want you?’ He laughed. ‘The very notion disgusts me for you are a Buchanan, tainted with their base blood. To me, you are a worm, a worthless whore – just like my bastard half-sister, Ravenna.’

  Morna gasped. ‘You…you are Ranulph Gowan?’

  ‘I am. But don’t think you can use that information against me. Where you are going, no one will care.’

  Chapter Three

  The prow cut through the water like a blade as it swallowed the distance between the Bain vessel and its prey, which was pitching wildly in full sail trying to flee around the headland. The cog was sitting low in the water, laden with cargo, while Will’s birlinn, light and manoeuvrable, had the advantage of speed. A high wave sucked the other ship against the shoreline and, over the howling of the wind and the steady hiss of rain, Will caught the sound of wood crashing against rock.

  They had her.

  As the stricken vessel surged back and forth in pounding seas, its crew frantically searching for a way off, Will drew alongside, ordering his men over the side and onto the deck. The shouts of panicked men mingled with the scrape of sword on sword as the Bains attacked.

  The ship was taking on water fast. Though they fought bravely at first, far too well for mere merchants, the crew soon realised they were outnumbered. As Will’s men cut them down, they began throwing themselves off the side to get to the rocks, in a desperate bid to save their skins.

  ‘Get what you can onto the ship,’ shouted Will over the wind. ‘We don’t have long before she sinks and her treasures with her.’

  ‘Aye this storm is rising, Laird,’ shouted back Waldrick Bain, his right hand. ‘We’ll scarce make it off these rocks ourselves if we tarry.’

  Will hung on to the mast, watching his men offload the vessel, urging them to hurry. He spotted one of the men from the stricken vessel as he clambered over rocks to safety, no mean feat, as huge waves surged forwards in the rising wind. Halfway to shore he was plucked off to be battered against the rocks, which grated off a man’s skin, crushed his limbs. The sea could chew on a body as if it were soft fruit. The man’s head bobbed to the surface momentarily, his arms flailing wildly, and then sank out of sight.

  ‘Make haste. What do we have?’ Will shouted at Waldrick as his men gathered, awaiting orders.

  ‘Cloth, some silver, we’ve most of it carried over. There’s just that big crate over there,’ said Waldrick

  ‘Too big to heave over the side. Crack it open and empty it.’

  It was nailed shut, so Waldrick stuck his axe in a gap between the lid and the side and prised it open. When he heaved off the lid, all the men gasped and took a step backwards.

  Inside, lay the body of a young woman, her dead flesh chalk-white against her blood-red dress.

  Waldrick crossed himself. ‘Is she going for burial? Why cross the sea with her?’

  The woman was lying strangely in her coffin, placed on her side, dark hair draped across her cheek, a purple mark visible through the damp strands. There was no shroud, the corpse’s hands were clenched together in fists under her chin, the knuckles blue, her knees pulled up as far as the confines of the crate would allow. The scene sent shivers down Will’s spine. Something was not quite right with it.

  ‘Was she cursed in some way that they would bury her out to sea, far from whence she came?’ said Will.

  ‘What evil is this?’ muttered Waldrick, crossing himself. ‘Perchance she’s a witch.’

  Will knelt down on one knee for a closer look, noticing that the lid of the crate had several holes bored into it. Water had penetrated, dampening the woman’s clothing.

  ‘Don’t Laird, let us be gone,’ urged Waldrick. ‘Twill bring bad omens if you disturb the dead.’

  Will reached out to pull the woman’s hair back off her face.

  She sat up with a shriek, making him recoil and fall backwards. She sucked in a breath in a hoarse whisper. Was she a ghost, for her face was wild, like a banshee, eyes staring as if not really seeing, shaking violently? Her fingers were corpse-white claws where they clung to the crate. She scrambled over the side and raised herself on unsteady legs and swung around, glaring at his crew. The wind and rain lashed her hair against her face so that only her terrible eyes were visible.

  ‘God save us, the dead have risen,’ cried one man.

  ‘She’s got the evil eye,’ shouted another.

  Will got to his feet, heart pounding.

  ‘I’m not dead,’ croaked the woman, staggering sideways as a huge wave buffeted the vessel. Will reached her just as she collapsed into his arms. She clung to him, and when he pulled her hair back off her cold face, the tempest surging around him seemed to rush into his heart.

  ‘I know you,’ he said, in confusion, brows furrowing. It could not be. How on earth could she be here like this? He shook her hard. ‘Morna? Morna Buchanan? Is it you?’

  Her eyes widened in sudden recognition, and she nodded, as her legs went from under her. There was a loud groaning sound as the vessel began to list sideways into the rocks. The Bain men didn’t need telling as they rushed over the side, back to their birlinn and safety. Will heaved Morna over the side with him. She was light and limp in his arms, but he clung on tight lest she be pitched into the water between the ships.

  He landed heavily on the deck of his own ship. ‘Pull away, hard, now,’ he bellowed at his crew. The men leapt as one to do his bidding, and their vessel slowly eased away from the other, leaving it to be swallowed by the depths as they turned back out to open sea.

  ‘You are hurting me,’ said Morna, pushing away from him. ‘Oh, I feel sick,’ she gasped.

  Will held her up by the forearm as she retched and then coughed up her guts. When she had finished, he dragged her over to the mast and pushed her down on to the deck.

  ‘Brace yourself for you’ll not feel better any time soon. Stay down and hang on. It will be rough getting around the headland in this storm. If you vomit again, try not to do it into the wind.’

  He moved up the deck to the prow of the ship, bracing himself as the ship lurched up on the waves and crashed back down. He had no time for this now. He had no time to think about Morna Buchanan, who had once saved him from an executioner’s axe. The same Morna Buchanan, who had met him five years ago, when he was a poor, shamed wretch, an outlaw, a traitor to Scotland - in her eyes at least. Back then he had been less than nothing, beneath her contempt, now fate had thrown this girl back into his path, this girl who he had once wanted with the burning ache of youth. Morna had once been far above him, but now she was reduced to being nailed into a crate, like chattel.

  Glancing back at her shaking on the deck Will was torn between exhilaration and confusion.

  He must ensure she survived the day, for, if God had handed him Morna Buchanan, he wasn’t about to hand her back any time soon.

  ***

  Hours later, clinging on to the mast with the last of her strength, Morna watched Will O’Neill command his men with an
iron fist. She remembered him as big and brawny, but he had grown in stature since then. He seemed harder too. Salt spray blew in, soaking everyone on board, and every now and then a huge wave crashed over the side, but he did not flinch. He seemed fearless and wild and at one with the sea.

  Morna was not. The cold made her bones ache, and the salty water stung her eyes. Violent shivering shook her limbs, and she feared she might die of fright. If only the ship would stop moving. The air was too fresh after the musty confines of the crate which she thought would be her coffin. It bit the back of her throat and set her teeth to chattering. Morna choked down the bile rising in her throat. She could not show weakness before these men for they all had the brutal look of their master, for that was what Will appeared to be, their leader. A grim-faced, scarred, hairy bunch they were and, with the last of her wits, Morna concluded that she was by no means out of danger now she was in their hands.

  How long had it been? Four, maybe five years. She tried to cling on to her reason and think of anything about William O’Neill that might get him on her side. The memory of him at the Battle of Bannockburn brought tears to her eyes. She had gone to those green fields with her brother’s wife Ravenna, to bring warning of a plot by Clan Gowan against his life, and that of King Robert. On their way there, they had been taken by some outlaws, one of whom was Will. For some reason, he had released them and sent them on their way, and something had happened between the two of them that night, some unspoken understanding. He had seemed to admire her in a rough way. Even after all these years, Morna still did not understand the folly that had made her think of Will time and again.

  As if he sensed her staring, he strode across the deck, his body in perfect harmony with the tilt and sway of the ship.

  Looming over her, it seemed an age before he spoke and Morna shuddered a little at the scar arching around one of his eyes. ‘We’ve rounded the headland, the worst part is over, the storm is easing. You’ve no need to be frightened now.’

  No need? The sea felt as rough as ever, she was fit to die with cold, and this was not the Will O’Neill she had known all those years ago. This was a hard stranger.