Black Raven's Lady: Highland Lairds Trilogy (6 page)

Keir turned his head and looked across the whitecaps at the two galleons racing along beside the
Raven
. Raine could hear the regret in his somber tone.

“Aye,” he replied. “The more we Scots fight amongst ourselves, clan against clan, the weaker we become as a nation.”

“Do you think we’ll ever know peace?”

“I hope so,” he said. “Once this rebellion is put down, and the traitors are taken to Edinburgh to be tried and executed, there may be a chance for a lasting peace.”

“Who is it you suspect of treason?”

Keir met her gaze, a scowl creasing his scarred forehead. “Not
suspect
, Lady Raine. Torcall MacMurchaidh has declared his support of Donald Dubh. That makes him guilty as sin.”

“So you’ll kill him without a qualm if he doesn’t surrender his castle?”

Keir shrugged. “ ’Tis the way of it, lass.” He must have read the dismay on her features. A dismay she tried to hide. Or perhaps ’twas the way she’d stiffened at his words. “I’ll nay kill a man if I don’t have to,” he said, his deep baritone revealing his stubborn pride. “I’m not a bloodthirsty monster, in spite of what you may have heard.”

Remembering how she’d called him an ogre, Raine bit her lower lip in embarrassment. She peeked up beneath lowered lids to meet his solemn gaze. “I know that, Keir. Gideon held you and your brothers in the highest esteem. And my mother loves the three of you as though you were her own sons.”

“And do you think of me as a brother, Raine?” he asked, his words so low she could barely hear him. He bent his head, as though intent on her reply. His side-braids fell forward and the gold hoop in his ear swayed.

She stared at Keir in shock at the preposterous suggestion. The memory of her vision of the two of them brought a flush to her cheeks. Her words came out in a plaintive croak. “Do you think of me as a younger sister?”

He paused for the space of a second, then seemed to choose his words with care. “I think of you as the beloved daughter of a close family friend.”

Inexplicably, his polite, measured answer brought a feeling of acute disappointment, as though a marvelous prize had just slipped through her fingers.

Raine turned to look out at the wood-carved black raven, its wings spread wide above the long, pointed bowsprit. “What more do you know of Laird MacMurchaidh, other than his support of Macdonald as the lord of the Isles?”

“Torcall is kinsman to the earl of Argyll by way of marriage. And as you must already know, Donald Dubh is Argyll’s grandson.

“Have you ever met MacMurchaidh?” she persisted, knowing she risked rousing his suspicion with too many questions.

“A few times,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Simple curiosity,” she lied.

They turned at the sound of the ship’s bell ringing the hour. Raine had learned to tell the time by its pleasant
ding-ding-ding
, for it measured the day and night every thirty minutes. A continuously ringing bell would mean a man had fallen overboard, or worse—abandon ship.

“Time for the midday meal,” Keir said, apparently distracted from their conversation by the thought of food.

She smiled in relief. “I wonder what Cook has prepared for us today.”

R
AINE FOUND LIFE
on the three-masted galleon exhilarating. She quickly learned many of the seamen’s names and their assigned tasks. The bosun, Adam Wyllie, was in charge of the deck crew and rigging. He was a tall, cheerful man with hands the size of melons and a mahogany braid so long he tucked it into the back of his belt. Iain Davidson, the ship’s carpenter, stood no taller than Raine and had a perpetual squint, as though always looking straight into the sun. The quartermaster, Simon Ramsay, was a solemn-faced man with a lantern jaw who rarely smiled. He attended to the steering, the ship’s compass, and the signals amongst the three ships. While the cook probably held the most important post of all—feeding a crew of two hundred and fifty hungry sailors three messes a day.

Fortune had favored Raine when Keir assigned Jasper Barrows to be her sea-daddy, for the little man had a garrulous nature and he regaled her with endless stories of the
Raven
’s sea battles and the individual heroism of each member of the crew. Two seamen, however, captured her special interest.

“Tell me about the Moor,” she said, indicating the crewman on the forecastle deck. Standing well over six feet tall, he wore a lavishly embroidered caftan with loose-fitting trousers tucked into knee-high red leather boots. In his wide cloth sash, he carried a huge, curved scimitar. The Moor’s hairless head, decorated with intricate inked swirls, glistened in the bright sunshine.

“That’s Abid al-Rahman, the
Raven
’s chief navigator,” Barrows told her with an amused chuckle. “As a young lad, he was trained as a scholar in Alexandria. He’d even written a paper on the many uses of the astrolabe. His owner, a rich pasha, sold him off as a galley slave in a fit of anger. The cap’n rescued al-Rahman from the wreckage of a sinkin’ Ottoman galley.”

“Oh, my,” Raine said sympathetically. “What could have made the pasha so angry?”

Barrows looked out over the waves. “That I would nay ken, milady.”

Raine had the distinct feeling that he did know, but wasn’t about to tell her.

“And the seaman standing beside the Moor?” she asked, motioning to the man with a ferocious visage. His black beard and mustache were trimmed short and neat, leaving multiple scars still visible beneath. “Why does he address me so politely as
domina
?”

That’s Apollonius the Greek,” Barrows replied. “He was an orphan raised by Christian monks on Rhodes. They taught the laddie to be a scribe and how to copy manuscripts in Latin. When the monastery was overrun by pirates, he was taken captive.”

“How did he end up on the
Raven
?”

“We boarded a pirate ship durin’ a sea battle. Apollonius came forward, surrendered his sword to the cap’n, and begged to be rescued.”

One afternoon Raine and her sea-daddy were joined on the aftercastle by the ship’s youngest midshipmen, also called middies and midshipmites in jest. “Tell us more about Captain MacNeil,” Robbie asked, sitting down cross-legged beside her.

Attired in the borrowed sailor’s outfit, Raine sat on the edge of the poop deck, her legs swinging over the side. “Oh, aye,” she agreed. “Tell us another story.”

“Indeed, I shall, milady,” Barrows said with a chuckle. “Ye should’ve seen the cap’n the day he earned that scarred-up busted nose of his. Himself scalin’ up the side of an enemy galleon like a bloody baboon and runnin’ smack into an evil-eyed whoremonger of a Dutchman with a cutlass as long as his arm.”

“I’ve heard this story before,” Robbie whispered, leaning in closer. “ ’Tis a good one.”

His shock of auburn hair ruffling in the sea breeze, Ethan nodded his agreement. “You’ll like it, Lady Raine,” he assured her. “No one’s braver than our captain.”

Barrows harrumphed, pretending annoyance at the interruptions.

“Oh, do go on,” Mr. Barrows,” Raine encouraged. “I’m anxious to hear the rest of the tale.”

“Well ’twas a blessin’ the clumsy bugger struck the cap’n with the weapon’s handle and nay the blade,” her sea-daddy continued. “The blow nearly knocked the cap’n back into the water. After the boardin’ and fightin’ was over and done, himself sat on an upturned barrel on the blood-soaked deck while Mr. MacNeil stitched up the cut as neat and tight as a wee, dainty maiden sewin’ her weddin’ clothes. ’Twasn’t nothin’ could be done for that crankled snout, howsoever.”

“The captain has a broken nose,” Robbie explained in earnest, pointing to his own pug one covered with bright orange spots.

“That’s what he means by a snout,” Ethan added.

“Oh, he does?” Raine asked, pretending amazement.

Barrows tipped back his grizzled head and hooted.

The two lads joined in with such infectious laughter that Raine started to giggle.

At that moment, Keir MacNeil came up from belowdecks to stand beside them. The sun glinted off the gold hoop in his ear, and with his scarred, battered face, he looked more like a pirate than the commander of a squadron in the king’s fleet. He raised a jagged brow in speculation.

“Seems Barrows is keeping you well entertained,” he said, looking from one to the other with obvious suspicion. “I hope he’s teaching you something instructive about life on a ship and not just indulging in idle chatter.”

“Oh, indeed,” she replied with a solemn air. “We would never sit and gossip like fishwives. I’m truly learning a lot.”

The two brothers leaped to their feet, gave their captain a quick salute, and hurried away.

Raine and her sea-daddy exchanged furtive glances, then looked out over the churning waves, each in an opposite direction. She bit her lip and held her breath, determined to stifle the giggles bubbling up from inside.

A
S LIFE ON
board ship fell into a routine, Keir would accompany Raine up into the rigging every morning, where they’d sit on the same upper crosstree, one on each side of the mainmast, and look out upon the vast ocean just as the sun rose above the horizon. They were often content to sit in silence, simply appreciating the beauty around them.

’Twas here that Raine glimpsed a side of Keir she’d never suspected. She’d always thought him lacking in any genteel feelings. Unlike his gifted brother Lachlan, Keir had never written a ballad praising a lady’s beauty and grace. Once, however, he’d entertained the Scottish court by changing the lyrics of an elegant love song Lachlan had composed into a bawdy ode to a lusty milkmaid. Everyone seemed highly entertained. Everyone except Laird MacRath and his ladylove.

Raine had been too young at the time to be present at court when it happened. She’d overheard the grown-ups reminiscing with great hilarity about it later. By that time, Lachlan had joined in the laughter with his two half brothers.

She’d learned early on that the three Hellhounds of Scotland shared a wicked sense of humor. Yet where Rory and Lachlan believed that Raine had been blessed with the second sight and listened respectfully to her visions, Keir had always been quick to voice his skepticism about anything to do with magic charms or spells. Especially where she was concerned.

“You seem to be getting along well with your sea-daddy,” Keir commented the morning after he’d found them laughing together.

“Oh, yes,” Raine said. She peeked around the mast to meet his gaze. “He’s been telling me about your exploits in battle,” she explained. “According to Barrows, you’re nigh invincible.”

“I wish to God that were true,” Keir replied soberly.

He looked out at the far horizon as though deep in thought, and when he spoke again, she could hear his concern for the men under his command. Men who would sail into hell with him, should he ask it.

“No one can predict how a sea battle will go,” he continued quietly, as though speaking half to himself. “We can only prepare for combat as best we can. We can practice at blowing up barrels till we’re choking in the smoke and soot. We can drill the crew in the setting and trimming of the sails over and over again. However in the heat and confusion of the fighting, anything can happen. A chance change in the wind can spell sudden disaster.”

Raine sat in silence, not knowing what to say. ’Twas as though she’d just peeked into Keir’s private world to discover an inner fear, not for himself, but for the lives of the seamen who viewed him as some sort of demi-god. Till that moment, she’d only known the brash, self-confident privateer. And what she’d just learned left her feeling bewildered. And a little guilty. She’d wormed her way on board the
Raven
by trickery and deceit. At the time, she’d only considered how best to outwit The MacNeil in order to reach her own goal. Not the burden she’d placed on his shoulders by her unwanted presence.

When it came time to descend, Keir helped her make her way down as he always did, carefully guiding her feet, staying as close to her as possible, ready to catch her should she slip. Never touching any part of her except her ankles, covered in the thick boys’ socks.

Once safely back on deck, he accompanied Raine toward the forecastle, where Barrows stood on the larboard side like a conscientious nursemaid waiting for her charge’s return from an outing with a parent.

“We’re fast approaching Cape Wrath,” Keir told her as they walked across the main deck. “We’ll soon be sailing into the Minch. This afternoon, Macraith and I will meet with Fearchar and Colin, along with their seconds in command, to draw up the siege plans for the castle at Steòrnabhagh.”

At the mention of her father’s fortress, a cold hand seemed to clutch Raine’s heart. She’d heard the rumors that Torcall MacMurchaidh had not only joined the rebellion, but he was also sheltering the self-acclaimed lord of the Isles.

“Perhaps you can persuade Donald Dubh to give himself up,” Raine suggested, though she knew such an extraordinary thing would probably never happen. The enmity and distrust between the clans of the Hebrides and the kings of Scotland had festered for generations.

“As the high chief of Clan MacDonald, the lad’s not likely to sue for peace before there’s so much as a skirmish fought,” Keir replied. He clasped Raine’s elbow and brought her to a halt. “When we approach the Isle of Lewis,” he continued, “I’ll send a boat ashore with three strong men to guard you. That will be three days before our ships enter the harbor, so you’ll be safe during the bombardment of the castle. My men will take you to your cousin’s village of Tolm. Perhaps you’ll be in time to help your kinswoman with the birth of her child after all.”

“Oh, no!” Raine cried, appalled at the news. “I must go on to Steòrnabhagh with you.”

Keir scowled. “Nay, lass, you can’t be on board the
Raven
during the battle. ’Twould be far too dangerous. We’ll put you ashore well before we sail into Steòrnabhagh harbor. After Castle Murchaidh is taken, I’ll send an escort for you.”

“There’s no reason for me to go to Tolm,” she admitted reluctantly, looking out across the waves to avoid his eyes. “I’ve no Cousin Lavinia, and no one I know is giving birth to a child on the Isle of Lewis or anywhere else.”