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

by Tessa Murran

  For a man who seemed restless and on edge when awake, Will slept like the dead, his scowl softened, his expression almost gentle. What a face he had, rugged and tanned, and he had the thickest eyelashes for a man, the colour of old gold. Some hair had fallen over his face, and Morna had a sudden urge to lift it away. Instead, she grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders and set off to explore Fitheach Castle.

  Following the sound of the ocean, Morna made her way upwards through dark corridors and rough-hewn staircases. After many twists and turns, she reached a door. When she tried to open it, she found it locked. All was deathly quiet except for the background roar of the ocean, and there was not a soul around. She rattled the door again. Locked.

  Suddenly the walls seemed to close in on her and sweat broke out on her forehead. Why couldn’t she get out? For an instant, she was back in the crate, every breath an effort in stale air, every muscle aching from being so confined, sobbing and feeling she would die with terror. With an effort, she pushed back the memory and unclenched her fists. When she looked at her palms, there were red indents where her fingernails had dug in, hard. Morna bit her lip and told herself to be calm.

  There had to be a way out, so she retraced her steps and went in the opposite direction. When she eventually reached another doorway, she could feel a cold breath of air whining in underneath it. She opened it and stepped out into a wind so fierce it buffeted her sideways and swept her hair up in its bite, making it whip against her face. Morna took a deep breath and steadied herself against the castle wall. When she took a few steps forward, what she saw made her gasp.

  She was standing on a small flanking tower which seemed to hang in thin air over the grey and frigid sea, stretching to the distant horizon. Peering over the ramparts Morna’s stomach flipped over at the dizzying drop. High waves rolled relentlessly into the base of the cliff, breaking with a deafening crash and sending white foam up into the air. The power of the water made her shiver and cling to the stone wall in front of her. Her head swam a little, so she remained still, taking deep breaths until the feeling passed.

  ‘Are you trying to freeze to death, Morna Buchanan?’ came a voice behind her.

  Morna turned with a thumping heart and was confronted by a scrawny young man. ‘Who are you, and how do you know my name?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Everyone at Fitheach knows your name. There are few secrets here, save those our Laird keeps. Gossip has it that there was a young lass lately ripped from the jaws of death. It would appear you are trying to throw yourself back into them. ‘Tis too cold and you look unsteady. Come inside with me before you take a chill.’

  ‘I do not mind the cold.’

  ‘But your hands are shaking.’

  Indeed they were when Morna looked down. ‘That is not because of the cold,’ she said.

  ‘Well you may not mind the cold, but I do, and I must go inside before I freeze. As you can see, I am not the most robust of men.’

  ‘Then go inside and leave me be.’

  ‘I am afraid I must insist,’ replied the young man. ‘Come along.’ He had a rough voice, at odds with a frail appearance.

  ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’ said Morna, her ire raised by his condescending manner.

  ‘I am Drostan Bain, Will’s cousin.’ He took a step closer. ‘Will said that you come from a great family and that we are to treat you as an honoured guest. The talk amongst the men is that you have a lovely face, but they were wrong for you are spectacularly pretty.’

  ‘And you are impertinent.’

  Why could he not leave her alone? Whatever and whoever he was, Drostan was annoying, like a tiresome bee buzzing in her ear when all she wanted was a little quiet.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘We get few strangers here, and it is a delight to meet someone new. I ail and therefore rarely leave the castle, so there is little excitement that comes my way.’

  Indeed he did look unwell. His skin was stretched tight over a thin face, pale, like parchment, as if all the blood had been drained out of it.

  ‘Please leave me, Drostan. I want to be alone,’ she said, hoping he would leave her be.

  ‘Oh, don’t break my heart by sending me away, for you are fascinating to me, Morna,’ he continued. ‘May I call you that? I can be your guide to Fitheach if you would let me. It will give you some respite from my cousin’s fierce attentions. He can’t keep you all to himself, that’s not fair.’

  He winked at her and smiled, and Morna was struck by how appealing his face was when he did that, despite the palor. It was dominated by brown eyes, a nose too delicate and long to be masculine and a wide, full mouth. The lilac circles under his eyes just accentuated his tortured beauty.

  ‘Your cousin won’t like it if I wander off,’ she replied, softening a little. ‘Besides, the door out is locked.’

  ‘How do you think I got in?’ he said smugly taking a key out of his pocket. ‘And you are right, he will not like it, so all the more reason to do it,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t say no, for I risk all to talk to you. My cousin would have me whipped for doing so.’

  Morna regarded him warily. It would be good to find out more about Fitheach, and Will too, and this Drostan seemed harmless enough. So scrawny was he that Morna suspected she could best him in a fight if she had to. If he stayed out here any longer, she worried that the wind might take him and blow him over the side of the tower.

  ‘Alright, you may be my guide but do not put a hand on me,’ she said sternly.

  ‘I will not, I swear. You are safe with me for I have a malady that is carrying me towards death’s cold grip. Rest assured, I am not a mindless brute like some others at Fitheach,’ he said darkly.

  ***

  Will’s castle was not as impressive a stronghold as Beharra, but it had a sturdy beauty to it and, as Drostan became her willing guide, Morna found herself warming to it a little, and to him too. They strolled along the battlements skirting the castle as Drostan told her stories of his Bain ancestors and how they had wrung a living from the sea and the wind-swept islands surrounding them.

  Morna took great delight in a particular kind of sea bird coming and going all around, with their striped faces and pompous waddling. Puffins, Drostan called them. Plump, quarrelsome things, they clung resentfully on to the cliffs below Fitheach in their hundreds, their shrill squawking and grabs for territory amongst the craggy rocks a constant chorus as the sun rose higher.

  Drostan kept stealing glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking and, every now and then, he would become bolder and smile into her eyes. He was attentive and courteous, and Morna found her heart stilling its beat a little in his soft company. She also pitied him for he had the whiff of the sick-room about him.

  How different he was to Will, who made her terribly nervous. In the years since they had last met, Will seemed to have hardened and embittered and now had an edge to him which his cousin did not.

  ‘The great hall,’ Drostan announced to Morna as they entered the heart of Fitheach. He walked off to the warm embrace of the fire, spitting in the hearth. ‘A bit of a grim place isn’t it,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and holding them out to the flames.

  Morna did not think it grim. Indeed, it was an impressive room, not that large but with a ceiling decorated with the same swirling ochre patterns as in her chamber, faded by time but still beautiful. The walls were hewn from massive blocks of stone, and the windows were set low along its length. Like everything, it smelled of the sea and spoke of a life lived for practicality rather than comfort, for there was little adornment.

  ‘You grace this hall in that dress,’ said Drostan in a clumsy attempt at flattery.

  ‘Does it belong to the Lady of Fitheach? Does your Laird have a wife I must thank for it?’ asked Morna.

  Drostan gave her a dark look. ‘No, there is not a woman alive who can hold my cousin’s interest for too long,’ he replied sullenly. ‘His tastes are many and varied in that regard.’
/>   Morna had the distinct impression his reply was meant to wound Will, so she changed the subject quickly. ‘This place must have seen many feast days and celebrations, Drostan.’

  The young man gave her an anguished look. ‘Not much to feast about since…’ He stopped and turned his back on her to stare into the fire.

  ‘Since what?’ asked Morna.

  ‘Nothing. ‘Tis not for me to say.’

  Drostan’s demeanour had darkened considerably.

  Morna frowned. ‘Your clan, the Bains, are they powerful hereabouts, feared?’

  ‘Aye, we are, and Will especially, though you have no need to fear my cousin for it is plain he likes you. I’ve scarcely ever seen him show so much interest in a lassie’s welfare.’

  Morna’s face grew hot, and she turned away. ‘Your cousin saved me once before, so it is not the first time I have owed him my life. I must say he has certainly come a long way since last I saw him.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘I encountered him a few years ago when he was a penniless outcast, and now he is a Laird, with all this at his feet. I must ask him how he managed it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Morna.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You won’t like the answer, that is, if you get a straight one. Best not to get on the bad side of my cousin, those who do pay a high price.’

  ‘Drostan, if you have something to say, then say it and stop talking in riddles.’

  The young man turned from the fire and came at her in a rush. For an instant, Morna was fearful, for his eyes were wild and full of turmoil. His voice fell to a whisper.

  ‘You want to know how Will became Laird, then I will tell you? He waded through a river of blood to do it.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Why, because you don’t want your hero to be tainted, is that it? Well here is the truth of it. Will cut down my father, here, in this very hall, just where you are standing, right in front of me and before the entire clan that he had ruled for a generation. That is how Will became Laird of the Bains.’

  ‘Are you saying he murdered his own uncle? Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he wanted my step-mother warming his bed. They were lovers you see. Will took a sword and drove it into my father’s heart then he dared the clan to challenge him, and none would, the cowards. The true Laird here was Fearchar Bain, but now his blood it soaked into the dirt between the very stones you are standing on, and I am denied my birthright.’

  ‘This is cosy,’ said a rough voice from the back of the hall. Morna’s world spun around, her heart picked up its beat.

  Will was leaning up against an archway in the shadows at the back of the hall.

  Chapter Seven

  How much had Will heard? How long had he been stalking them in the shadows? Morna glanced at Drostan, who swallowed hard, his face becoming even more pallid.

  ‘You should have awakened me, Morna,’ said Will, coming casually forward. There was a glint of malice in his eyes, and he had tied his unruly hair back from his face, which made him harsher somehow.

  ‘And you should not have put yourself in my bed,’ she retorted, thinking attack the best form of defence.

  Drostan looked from one to the other of them with alarm and some outrage at her revelation. There was a tense silence as Will glared at Morna.

  ‘I…I was showing Morna around Fitheach,’ Drostan sputtered.

  It was as if Drostan were invisible.

  ‘I sought only to comfort you, Morna, should your nightmares return,’ said Will, frowning.

  ‘You took liberties, and you know it,’ replied Morna. ‘But it seems it is in your nature to do so.’

  Will smiled, and it was bitter on his face. ‘Don’t presume to know my nature, Morna Buchanan. Has my cousin been educating you with his unique view of the world? Has he been sharing his little secrets and turning your head?’

  ‘Will, I sought only to make our guest feel welcome, and you should not speak to Morna like…’

  ‘Scurry back to your nest now, little rat,’ said Will quietly. It would have been less intimidating if he had shouted.

  Drostan hesitated for a moment and, with a last worried look at Morna, he hurried off.

  ‘You didn’t have to be cruel to him,’ said Morna angrily.

  ‘Are you his champion now on such short acquaintance?’

  ‘More than I am yours, for he released me from my imprisonment.’

  ‘Ah, you think I locked you up out of some dark design. You misunderstand me. Few women look as good as you, here at Fitheach, and the men, well, they are a rough bunch. I sought only to keep you clear of their rather coarse attentions.’

  ‘I can take care of myself. And your cousin ails, and is deserving of your kindness.’

  ‘He is deserving of a whipping for he is a snivelling wretch, stinking of piss and blood. He is nought but a pup who likes to yap. You think because he is weak that he is trustworthy? Drostan will talk at great length of glory and honour and yet he has never wielded a sword in anger. He will crow like a cockerel of chivalry and courtly love yet he has tupped every low-born girl in this castle with no thought for their honour. He gets their guard down by making them pity him, and then he takes advantage of them. You should have more sense than to believe everything you hear.’

  ‘Tell me, William, that man, the Cranstoun. What happened to him?’

  His expression hardened. ‘I got him to tell me what I wanted to know,’ he said, picking at something under his nail, ‘and then I threw him from the castle walls to break on the rocks below. The tide took him out to sea.’

  Morna gasped and took a step back from him. ‘That is cruel.’

  ‘No more cruel than selling a woman into slavery. Tell me, when you beat on the lid of that crate, when you screamed and begged for them to let you out, did any man offer words of comfort or try to help you? You told me they laughed, and that wretch laughed along with the rest of them, I am sure. Just before I gave him a watery end, he cursed us both. He said you were a filthy, Buchanan whore who deserved to be drowned like an unwanted dog.’

  Will’s face was hard and angry, so Morna retreated back a step.

  ‘Are you afraid of me now?’ he said.

  ‘No. Never.’

  He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Maybe you should be.’

  Morna gathered her courage. ‘What of Fearchar Bain and his wife, your lover. How do you justify killing your own family.’

  Will took hold of her arm in a fierce grip. ‘We will not speak of that.’

  ‘Because you are ashamed?’

  ‘Because it has nought to do with you.’

  ‘Fine, William, you may keep your secrets. I shall be gone soon, and we may never see each other again, so why should you care if I have a low opinion of you?’

  This seemed to anger him for he came closer, his face pulled into a scowl, eyes stormy. Then he took a deep breath and smiled wickedly as if putting his anger away was just a blink of the eye.

  ‘Morna Buchana, I do believe you are jealous about my having a lover?’

  ‘If you think to scandalise me with that, you are very much mistaken. It is no surprise to me given our past acquaintance that you are not a moral man.’

  ‘I’ve never pretended to be. You do not know the truth of the matter, and so closed-minded are you, I doubt you’d listen to the truth if you heard it.’

  ‘Very well, I will play this game. Drostan says you murdered his father to become Laird because you were lying with his wife.’

  ‘The lying with the Laird’s wife bit is true and very pleasing it was too, so I’ll not beg forgiveness for that or feign regret. Edana was beautiful and liked men. She had other lovers than me, and she was a faithless bitch to Fearchar Bain.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t care,’ he said, in a cold way.

  ‘And Fearchar Bain?’

  ‘I killed the bastard.’

>   ‘How could you do it? He was your uncle, your own family, he took you in?’

  ‘Family, you say? The man barely merited the word. Fearchar Bain took me in because I was useful to him. I came here ragged and starving because I had nowhere else to go, no family, no land nor clan, my very name outlawed and reviled. I had to beg on bended knee for shelter at Fitheach and, until I proved my worth, I was forced to sleep with his dogs. I was his sister’s son, but I was not treated as some honoured guest with a soft bed and protection, like you. I was the lowest of the low, not fit to lick his boots, he said.’

  He let go of her and turned away for a moment and looked out the windows to the ocean, his chest heaving with some awful emotion.

  Morna relented a little. ‘I suppose you don’t have to explain yourself to me, William.’

  ‘For the love of God woman, it is Will, can you not call me Will?’ he bellowed.

  ‘If you like,’ she replied quietly, unsettled by his sudden rage. His voice was bitter when he next spoke.

  ‘Morna, you should know that my uncle only took me in as you call it, so that he could humiliate me and I had no choice but to bear it. A man’s greatest weakness is his pride, that and love, of course, but then I’ve never really had that to lose. Fearchar knew just where to stick the knife to crush my pride and make me his dog.’

  ‘How?’ asked Morna.

  ‘I was given the filthiest tasks, slopping out the bilge on the ships, scrubbing the deck until my knuckles cracked and bled with the cold, climbing the mast to haul the sails in raging seas, puking my guts out. I was put to turning the spit in the kitchen, a job for small boys, not a young man. The humiliation burned me far worse than the fire ever did. I had not one friend in this place or in the world. Fearchar hoped I would die and he would be rid of me, but I did not die. Every awful thing I had to do just made me stronger and angrier and, when it came to a fight, no one could best me. That was where my true value lay, in fighting his battles.’