Captured by the Pirate Laird (18 page)

Calum’s
guarded frown transformed into a scowl and she didn’t need to turn around to
know why. The big oaf had wandered up behind her, his stench nearly rancid.
Calum’s hand disappeared under the table and he tipped his up chin. “What can
we do for ye, friend?” He drew out the word friend as if to emphasize its
importance.

“I’ll
pay ye coin for a toss with yer wench.”

“She’s
no wench.” The chair clattered against the wall as Calum stood with his fingers
wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “I suggest ye go ’bout yer business afore
ye insult the lady further.”

Anne
glanced between the others. The unspoken expressions and nods around the table
were unmistakable. She fingered the little dagger in her pocket and tried to
swallow down the lump in her throat. She knew she was no match for a soul in
the room, including the buxom matron of the inn.

Chairs
scraped across the floor and she stole a glance over her shoulder. A half-dozen
men walked up behind the big Scot. She stiffened when he reached out and
grabbed a lock of her hair. “Me thinks I want a turn with the lass.”

Anne’s
hands shot up to protect her head when he pulled. Her knife flew out of her
hand and skidded across the wooden planks. Faster than she could blink, Calum
drew his sword. With an inhuman roar, he leapt forward. One foot tapped on the
table and he launched himself over Anne’s head. Feet first, he thrust his full
weight into the brute’s chest. Careening backward, the Scot thudded hard
against the floorboards. Anne shrieked when he jumped to his feet and scrambled
to pull his long claymore from its scabbard.

Anne
dropped to her knees and scurried to the wall as the room erupted in a full on
brawl. She eyed her knife. Crawling under the table, her hand was inches from
it when a booted foot kicked it across the room.

She
scurried back against the wall and she hugged herself as Calum and his men
stood back to back in a circle in the center of the room. Drunken, barbarous savages
lunged in, swinging claymores and battleaxes. Calum’s relentless sparring
sessions sprang into action. The MacLeod men wielded their swords with expert
finesse. Even Bran held his own. Bloodied, the attackers began to ease away,
but the big Scot advanced on Calum with fire in his eye. He swung his sword
over his head and Calum stopped him with a swipe of his dirk across his exposed
under arm. The brute staggered back, mouth agape. He raised his sword and
charged in for another clash of iron.

Anne
shrieked. A thick, hairy arm grabbed her around the waist and hefted her over
his shoulder.

“Help!”
Anne kicked her legs as the pungent swine hauled her out the door. She slammed
her fists against his back and the heathen mocked her, howling with a hacking
laugh.

He
pushed through the stable doors and into a vacant stall. Throwing her down on a
musty pile of straw, he slid the door shut behind him. The moonlight shone
through the barred window and cast a shadow across his black bearded face.

He
glared down at her and cackled while he unclasped his sword belt. “You’re a
pretty morsel to be traveling around these parts.”

“Keep
your filthy hands off me.”

His
eyes popped wide. “Why you’re an
English
lass.”

“Lowlander.”
She hedged, trying to affect a Scottish accent. Calum had warned her to keep
her mouth shut. The feral beast took a step toward her and Anne shoved her back
against the wall, her hands blindly feeling for anything she could use as a
weapon.

“It
doesna matter to me, wench, as long as you’re warm.”

Discarding
his belt, in one move he crouched over her. His hands either side of her head,
he trapped her with a low chuckle. Anne swallowed hard and crossed her legs tight.
The stench of him made her wretch. She shrieked when he grabbed at her, his
hands everywhere. Her dress ripped. He seized her leg. Anne twisted against his
brutal fingers. He pressed her to the ground and forced her legs apart with his
knees, pinning her shoulders down with his hands.

“Friggin’
boar’s bullocks. Trews?”

Anne
kicked and gasped for air. His face was an inch from hers and he licked her
mouth while one hand fumbled with her trouser laces. Unable to break from under
his crushing weight, she raised her head and bit his cheek. Her mouth filled
with vile beard and the taste of salt and dirt but she didn’t release. She sank
her teeth deeper until he yanked his head away.

He
bellowed like a bull being castrated and jerked his palm back. Anne tried to
shield her face, but the speed of his hand ripped through her defenses and slapped
across her face. Her teeth crunched and the stinging pain seared her skin. Anne
struggled to pull her legs together against his weight. He crushed his body atop
her. She could scarcely breathe. With all her strength, she shoved his heavy
chest, unable to make him budge. Hot prickles attacked her skin as she wheezed.
His weight would soon suffocate her.

In
a flash, the rutting bastard’s heavy body lifted. Anne sucked in a gulp of God
given musty air and recoiled at a thud crashing across the stall.

“I’ll
cut off yer cock and stuff it down yer neck!” Calum crouched low and brandished
his claymore as the moonbeams shot rays across his deadly sneer. A savage growl
erupted from Calum’s throat as he circled the filthy animal.

The
rogue’s eyes darted toward his sword. Anne saw it glimmer in the hay beside her
leg. She snatched up the hilt and bolted for the far wall.

“Ask
forgiveness for yer sins ’cause I’m sending ye straight to hell.”

The
brute bent down to pull a dirk from his hose. Calum didn’t hesitate. He lunged
and sliced his blade across the stunned man’s neck. The Scot’s mouth gaped and
his hands flew up to stop the bleeding but there was little he could do. He
flopped down to the hay and lay in a lifeless heap, his vacant eyes staring at nothing.

Calum
dropped his sword and pulled Anne into his embrace. “Are ye all right, milady?”

She
buried her head in Calum’s shoulder and shuddered. “I-I don’t know.” Tears
streamed down her face. With every nerve trembling, she tried to be strong.
“I-I’m a b-bit shaken.” Anne wanted to nestle against his warm chest and stay
there.

His
lips caressed her forehead. “Of course ye are. A woman as fine as ye should not
be traveling these lawless lands—’tis no place for any lassie.”

Anne
wrapped her arms around his waist and he grimaced. Her hand touched something
hot and wet. She held up her hand to the streaming moonlight. Blood. “You’re
injured.”

“Tis
just a scratch, but we need to get back to the men.” He led her out of the
stall. “’Twas only a drunken barney but I want to be sure it’s over.”

Mopping
up a substantial puddle of blood, the inn’s matron shot them a heated look when
they returned. Calum dug in his sporran. “I’ll pay ye for the damages.”

“Aye,
ye will.” She held out her hand while Calum counted out the shillings.

Ian
and John walked in through the back door. “The big fella didna make it,” John
said.

Calum
faced them. “I’ll take me
cousin
upstairs. Give me a minute to get her settled, then bring a basin of hot
water.”

Anne
let Calum take her arm and lead her up the creaking steps. Her hands still
trembled, but so did his. He closed the door behind them and faced her. “I
shouldna brought ye overland but now ’tis too late to turn back. Ye do not look
like a Scottish lassie and I cannot figure how we’ll make it all the way to
Carlisle with ye in that dress and yer highborn English accent.”

“I’m
sorry.” Anne studied the toes of her boots. “If you had only explained the
danger—queen’s knees, you just said your word is law and I’d better go along
with it or else.”

“I’m
a
laird.
The care of the clan is in me
hands.” Calum stretched his side with a grimace. “’Tis no’ just that. Do ye ken
how beautiful ye are?” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never seen
a woman with half yer beauty. Ye have it all—hair of spun gold, rosy lips like
an archer’s bow and eyes that look as if they were forged of sapphire. ’Tis too
much for a Highland scrapper to resist.”

“How
could you exaggerate so?”

Calum
grasped her shoulders. “What I’m saying is you’re very pleasing to the eye—very.
Every heathen from here to Carlisle will want to lay with ye.”

Anne
bit her bottom lip. “I’ll wear the trews on the morrow.”

“Thank
ye.”

“Can
the pack mule carry my day gown?”

“Aye.”
He cupped his hand against her cheek. “All yer fine things left behind. Is that
why you’re fighting me so?”

Anne
wrapped her arms around her body. Her things? Is that what he thought? What
about leaving Raasay and Mara and Bran and Friar Pat, Swan…and
him
? Did he have no clue how she felt? How
much this ransom tore her apart?

“Anne?”

“We
both knew this was coming.” She swallowed the words she so desperately wanted
to speak. Calum had made it clear—he cannot love her. “But that does not make
it more palatable.”

She
dropped her gaze and studied the blood caked on the side of his linen shirt. It
ran down over his kilt. He looked as if he was still bleeding. He needed
tending. “Remove your shirt and I shall inspect your wound.”

“’Tis
nothing.”

She
tapped her foot. “I’ll be the judge of that. Now let me have a look.”

With
a groan, he cast his eyes toward the rafters. “Do ye ken anything about
stitching up wounds?”

“I’m
adept at needlepoint.”

Calum
tugged his shirt out from his kilt and pulled it over his head. The sight of
Calum standing bare chested right in front of her sapped every ounce of her
resolve. A shock of heat coiled between her hips. Her knees buckled and her
mouth went dry. The muscles on his chest stood proud and square, leading to a
rippled stomach. His kilt sat low on his hips, exposing his naval—and below it,
a silky trail of tantalizing coppery hair. Anne couldn’t breathe, and this time
there was no smelly brute crushing her.

Calum
chuckled and pointed to his side. “Me wound’s over here.”

With
a blink, Anne tore her eyes away. The heat rising to her cheeks felt like a
blast from a flame. She stared at the oozing cut just above Calum’s hip—a
sobering sight.

“I
told ye ’twas just a scratch.”

Anne
placed her fingers on either side of the gash. He gasped when her cold fingers
touched his warm skin and gently inspected the wound. Blood gushed out, and
Calum pressed his shirt against it.

Anne
grasped the shirt and held the compress in place. “It needs to be stitched.”

Reaching
down, Calum lifted her chin and tilted it up toward him. His chest heaved with
every breath. His tongue slowly ran across his top lip. She’d kissed him enough
to know he wanted to taste her—even with his wound bleeding. Events in this God
forsaken place had rekindled the spark they shared. Anne realized it had never
been snuffed.

John
burst through the door with Ian and Bran behind him, carrying ewers of water. They
all stood in the doorway with gaping mouths.

“What?”
Calum threw a hand out to his side. “She needs to stitch me wound.”

They
all nodded with nervous laughs, and the tension in the room eased. John, Ian
and Bran gathered around her, showing their battle wounds. Fortunately, none
had anything else that needed to be stitched.

Anne
had Calum sit on the lone chair and she knelt beside him. She removed a bone needle
and catgut thread from the kit Friar Pat had insisted they carry along. Careful
not to cause more bleeding, she closely examined Calum’s flesh. It seemed so
human, so vulnerable. Yet he had fought with the heart of a lion. He smelled of
wood smoke and the spicy musk that made him not just any man, but Calum
MacLeod, Laird of Raasay.

He
had always said he would protect her and this night he had not hesitated to act
on his promise. A pink scar under his arm caught her eye.

“How
did you come by that?”

“Fighting
the English with the Sutherlands, protecting Dornoch Castle in forty-seven.”

Anne
did the math. “You were but a boy.”

“Aye.”

His
eyes darkened, and Anne realized he’d been in the midst of battle against Lord
Wharton’s sword. “He was there. Was he not?”

“We
chased him all the way back to Carlisle.”

“Why
were you helping the Sutherlands?”

“That’s
what any honorable Scot would do when their ally is plundered by a…”

“Murdering
bastard?” The curse spilled from Anne’s mouth.
Is the baron truly thus?

Calum
ran his hand over her hair. “Aye.”

“I’m
sorry,” she whispered.

Beside
her sat a man who would defend his clan against any foe and fight for her
virtue, the virtue of his enemy’s
wife
.
Calum was a man of honor. She brushed her fingers across his warm skin. This
would hurt him. She looked at the bone needle and gritted her teeth. Deftly,
she pushed it through and tied off the first stitch. Calum made not a sound but
took a draw from his flagon.

She
kept her eyes on her work. “He’s a good man, your friar. ’Tis nice to see
someone looks after you.”

Calum
took another swig of whisky. “Aye. He does what he can.”

She
needed to take another stitch. Examining at the wound, Anne’s stays pushed
against her ribs as if constricting her to the point of swooning. She swallowed
and willed herself to keep her wits. Her hand trembled when she held up the
needle.

Calum
reached down and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “Would ye rather John do
it?”

She
dared rake her eyes up his torso and met his gold-flecked gaze. With a swallow,
she shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” Anne steadied her hand. He took in a breath,
and the copper hair below his navel strained against his kilt. If only she
could run her hand across the rock hard muscles of his abdomen.

He
cleared his throat and she again focused on the task at hand. Though he showed
no outward sign of discomfort, the needle had to hurt. She must work quickly
for him. After the first piercing of flesh, Anne tied off five stitches. She
blew on the gash to cool the burn, just like Hanna would have done back at Titchfield
House.

Calum
took a long draw from his flagon and gave her a cockeyed grin. “Ye done well,
milady.” His voice sounded low and husky. He reached down and traced his finger
from her ear, along her jaw. He stopped at her lips. Her tongue snuck out and
tapped it. Eyes locked, Anne wondered if it was the whisky or if he, too, felt
the surge of their unbridled attraction.