Captured by the Pirate Laird (26 page)

He
stared out the window. Denton had yet to fail him, but this was unacceptable. The
man should have returned days ago. Wharton would severely dock his pay. He
blamed Denton for the Scot’s escape. How could he allow the enemy to walk into
Carlisle, overcome the guard and ride out the gates?

Approaching
from the citadel, Denton slowed his cohort to a trot and pulled to the halt in
front of the King’s Head Inn. Wharton barreled out to confront him.

“What
the blazes took you so long?”

Denton’s
gaunt scowl did nothing to intimidate. He was the Baron of Wharton with the
House of Lords behind him. The ass dismounted and sauntered toward him. “Shall
we discuss this in your rooms?”

“I
want an answer now. You’ve been gone for ten days. It should have taken you no
more than two.”

Denton
removed his feathered cap and slid his hand across his black hair. “Would you
have preferred to mount your attack in a land-hugging pinnace, sporting a
single cannon at her stern, or wait for an eighteen-gun racing galleon fresh
out of the Maryport dockyard?”

Wharton
narrowed his gaze. He would not be made into a fool.

Denton
gestured to a sizable man in a velvet cloak. By his embroidered velvet doublet,
he had to be a knight or higher, else Thomas would take him into custody for
breaking sumptuary laws. He squinted at the man. A hanging on the morrow might
satisfy his thirst for blood.

“May
I introduce Sir Edward Gilman, captain of the
White Lion
.”

Wharton
ran his gaze over
Sir Edward
from
head to toe. The public hanging would have to wait. “A knighted captain?”

Sir
Edward bowed. “Yes, my lord. May I be the first to offer my condolences for
this act of abomination against your person. Rest assured the queen’s navy
stands behind her peers.”

Wharton
scratched the stubble on his chin. “Your ship is manned with eighteen cannons,
did you say?”

“Correct.
A fighting vessel. The entire crew is trained to wield cutlasses. My men are
fighters, none better.”

Wharton
grinned. Ten days might not have been all that long to wait, especially if he
had a new ship outfitted to blast that pillaging Scot and his entire clan off
his miserable island. “Well then, shall we discuss this further in my rooms?”

Denton
flashed his thinned-lipped smile, the smug bastard. If the man had returned
with anything less, Wharton would have not hesitated to humiliate him right
there in the square. Sometimes the dark sneer on that man’s face needed a good
slap and Wharton would have liked nothing more than to deliver it.

He
plodded up the stairs of the inn to the less-than-adequate rooms he’d let for
the duration of his stay in Carlisle. They’d sail north with an army. He’d have
his chance to unleash the violent storm that raced through his blood and the
target of his ire would be the damnable woman he’d so foolishly wed, and her
Scot.

***

Wharton
closed his eyes against the lurching of his gut as sailors hoisted him up the
side of the
White Lion
. His size
reflected the importance of his station but the strain of the ropes and the creaking
of the winch had him praying the contraption would haul him safely to the deck.

Boarding
from a skiff in the Firth of Solway saved them a day’s ride to Maryport to use
their pier. He was no milk-livered weakling who needed the security of a gangway
to board a ship, as if for a pleasure cruise.

Six
sets of hands reached across the rail and pulled him over. The leather soles of
his shoes slipped and he tumbled into the sailors and lay sprawled across the
deck, belly up. “You careless dolts.” He rolled to his side. A sailor offered
his hand. “I do not need
your
help.”

Wharton
pulled himself up using the rail, and scanned the deck for the captain. He
found him standing at the helm, watching the activities from the quarterdeck.
Wharton pattered up the stairs. “Ah, Captain Gilman. Have my things taken to
your stateroom. I will commandeer your cabin for this journey.”

The
captain snapped his fingers at the tar. “Mister Winter. You heard his lordship.
Take Lord Wharton’s valise to the captain’s cabin and see to it he’s made
comfortable.”

Wharton
brushed off his breeches and doublet. His less than elegant entrance
notwithstanding, the lowlife sailors now knew he was master of the ship, and
their captain was his to command.

Calum
wasted no time building his strength. Once his body gained some real
sustenance, he could stand without swooning and now most of his stamina had
returned. Boars ballocks, if anyone had seen him collapse on the bed, Mara and
the friar would have tied him down and forced him to rest for a week or more. But
this was no time to lie abed and nurse his wounds.

He’d
been up for near two weeks and had resumed practicing in the courtyard with his
men. The unsavory expectation of battle hung heavy in the air. All must be in
peak condition. Though the lash marks on his back were still weeping, Calum
would not let them cripple him. He sparred with John, willing the pain to seep
into his blood and empower him.

The
strength in his injured wrist had all but returned. He grasped his claymore
with both hands as they circled. John lunged first. Calum darted aside and
spun, whacking his opponent in the arse with the flat side of his weapon. “Bloody
hell, Urquhart, don’t ye be going easy on me. We’ve a war to fight.”

John
whipped around with his sword over his head and sped in with a downward blow.
Calum raised his claymore and blocked it. He shifted his weight and swung his
foot into John’s path. The big man’s feet flew up and he landed on his back.
“Blessed Mary, Calum. We’re just sparring.”

“Aye.”
Calum pointed his sword across the courtyard, eyeing his men. “This will be a
battle to the death and every man must fight for his home and his womenfolk—’cause
if ye do not, that thieving bastard will take it all. He’ll cut everyone’s throat
and laugh whilst ye bleed out.”

Calum’s
eyes snapped back to John. “Now fight me like you’re defending Mara.”

“And
me unborn child.”

Calum
lowered his sword. “What?”

John
grinned and thumped his chest. “Me wife’s with child.”

“Thank
the heavens and all the stars. Congratulations, John.” But he’d make a toast
later. Calum eyed him and reassumed his defensive stance, knees bent, sword
ready. “Now, cousin, fight me as if yer wife’s and yer unborn child’s lives are
at stake.”

Fire
flashed behind John’s eyes. Bellowing like a bull, he barreled in and swung his
claymore. His wrist not quite fully healed, Calum struggled to defend the jarring
blows and brandished his sword with both hands. The iron weapons clashed and
screeched as the blades slid down their shafts with neither swordsman willing
to back down. In a battle of muscle, the two men met face to face as their
hilts touched. Sweat streamed into Calum’s eyes as he tried to push John away,
but his cousin planted his foot into his gut and shoved. Calum stumbled and
tripped, landing on his back.

A
million sharp knives drove into his flesh like the teeth of a shark. Calum
bellowed. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. How could his body be so
bloody weak? His feeble flesh betrayed him.

“Calum?”
John kneeled at his side. “Are ye hurt?”

“Of
course I’m no’ hurt,” Calum yelled. He shook his head and tried to clear his
vision. Blast it all, he would not show his weakness to his men. Calum lumbered
to his feet and swayed, but he held up his sword, challenging John for another
bout.

John
tapped the tip of his blade against a rock. “I think ye need to coach the guard.
They’re looking a bit scraggly, they are.”

Calum
glanced over his shoulder at the lines of sparring partners. John’s suggestion
did have merit. “Ye aren’t going easy on me, ’cause if ye are, I’ll kick yer
arse all the way to Applecross.”

“No,
m’laird. Ye’ve plum tuckered me out.”

Calum
jutted out his chin. “All right then.” He sheathed his sword and strode through
his troop of fighting men. He picked apart each man’s technique with a
discerning eye until the sentry sounded the trumpet from atop the wall walk.

Running
out the gate with his men, Calum looked toward the sound. William MacLeod stood
in a galley and waved his arms. Calum raced down to the beach as the mid-sized boat
sailed into the shore. William jumped over the side and splashed his way
through the surf. “A bloody English galleon just rounded the isle of Mull.”

Calum’s
gaze shot to John. As they’d thought, Wharton had commandeered the big guns. “We
have a day, mayhap two.”

“And
ye can bet she’ll be laden with fighting men.”

“Gather
round, lads.” Calum turned and faced his men with the surf pounding behind. “With
a galleon, they’ll have to sail round the Isle of Skye. When they reach
Trotternish, let them think they’ve caught us unawares.”

Bran
held up his hand. “How will we do that with two ships moored in the bay?”

“First,
we’ll sail
The
Golden Sun
to the cove at Applecross. She’ll be hidden from
sight—they won’t even see her from our cove. We’ll keep her sails unfurled and
when they attack, we’ll flank them at full speed.”

“And
what of the
Sea Dragon
?” Ian asked.

Calum’s
stomach clenched at the name of his most beloved ship. “She’ll be asleep in our
bay. Her sails will be furled tight and we’ll no’ light the lamps, but the
cannons will be manned.” He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword.
“The bastards will nay make it to our shore.”

Calum
knew the sea and knew his plan was sound, but he needed his brother’s
reinforcements. He held his hand to his forehead to shield the sun from his
eyes and looked northward.
Where is that
blasted Ruairi? Norman should have returned by now. I need him at the helm on The
Golden Sun.

Calum
had eighty fighting men. He could use twice that and Ruairi had hundreds.

Cheering,
the men punched their fists in the air and bounded up the hill to share the
news with their families.

John
hung back with Calum. “How do ye want to divide the men?”

Calum
drew the heel of his boot across the stony beach. “With Norman away, ye’ll have
to sail
The Golden Sun
to
Applecross.”

John’s
lips thinned, but he nodded. Calum knew his cousin would want to stay close to
Mara, especially now she was carrying their first child, but Calum needed him
on
The Golden Sun
more. He placed his
hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Ye’ll be safer on the galleon.”

“’Tis
no’ my safety that concerns me.”

“Mara
will be tucked away in the keep. They’ll no’ come near her.”

John
ground his fist into his palm. “If they touch her, I’ll cut off their ballocks
and make the varlet’s eat them.”

“As
will I, cousin.” Calum started up the beach. “Go. Choose yer crew. I want ye to
sail at dusk.”

Calum’s
breath labored as he climbed the steep slope to the keep. He hated the weakness
that invaded his muscles. It could not sap his strength, not now when he needed
to defend his clan. On the other side of Skye, a galleon approached and he knew
Wharton was aboard that ship. The man was too full of hate and selfish pride to
recline while others blasted cannons at Raasay.

Yes.
Wharton would be there so he could claim another victory against Scotland.
Calum would not allow the baron to succeed. He would send the bastard to his
grave and then find a way to make amends with Lady Anne. He’d win her even if
it took a decade.

Calum
found Friar Pat tending his plot of dirt.

The
friar dusted his hands as he rose. “Ye look like ye’ve been bludgeoned to within
an inch of yer life.”

“How
easily ye forget. I have.”

“Ye
need rest.”

“’Twill
have to wait until we blast the English out of the Sound of Raasay.”

“They’ve
been spotted, then?”

“Aye.”
Calum rubbed the back of his neck. “I need ye to mix a tincture for the
pain—something that will no’ sap me wits. Can ye do it?”

“There
aren’t many options—willow bark tea.”

“That’s
a start.”

“The
best option’s a honey poultice wrapped with damp cloths.”

Calum
hated the sticky, slimy feel of the friar’s poultices but he knew Patrick was
right. “Prepare enough mixture for two applications. I’ll take it on the ship
with me.”

“Should
I come along? I can look after ye then.”

“Nay.
The women need ye here.” Calum drew in a deep breath and grasped the friar’s
shoulders. “If we should fail, take the women and children to the north of the
island and wait for Ruairi. Me brother will come—he may miss the battle—but he’ll
be here.”

“Ye
will nay fail.”

“I
will no’, but I need ye to promise me ye’ll care for the families should
something go awry.”

“Of
course ye have me word.” Patrick stepped in and grasped Calum’s shoulder. “I’ve
listened to yer moans for near three days. If any of what ye said is true—and
by the state of yer back I believe it is—that man is nay fit to live. Send the
English murderer to his maker, and then bring back our Lady Anne.”

The
hair on the back of Calum’s neck tingled as if brushed by an eagle feather. “I
intend to.”

Anne
remained ever present in his mind. He would never forget how the baron had
slapped her, nor would he forget her strength when she stood there and took it
without so much as a whimper.

If
he had only given in to his heart when she’d asked him to claim her on their
last night in the forest. He’d wanted to enter her and make her his, but his
prideful heart would not allow him. He should have feigned her death and dealt
with Wharton’s ire after. At least she would be beside him now.

If
Calum could only have the chance to see her again, he would take her in his
arms and cover her mouth with his. He’d knead his fingers into her back and
when she begged for more, he’d slip his hand around and caress those milky
white breasts that strained so proudly against her bodice.

Calum’s
entire body went rigid when he pictured himself tasting her, running his tongue
around the dark pink skin at the tip of her breast. He wanted to make her moan
with pleasure again and again. He wanted to be the one to take her to the pinnacle
of passion between a man and a woman. Why had they been destined to meet? Their
souls screamed to be together, yet all the forces in the world kept them apart.

Calum
closed the door to his chamber and latched it. Her trunks still lined the wall.
Traces of Anne were everywhere. He opened his hand and revealed the kerchief
and his heart squeezed. Taking in a deep breath, he pictured her standing by
the hearth completely naked.

When
they’d danced at the Beltane festival the length of her body had slid down his,
igniting every inch of his skin. His body had responded with a raging fire beneath
his kilt. In the wood before she’d ridden into Carlisle, she had turned to
jelly in his arms, stripped away her highborn demeanor and had revealed the
depths of her own passion. She loved him and he desired her with every fiber of
his being. He ached with a desperate need for release. Frantic passion pushed
through his swollen, rigid flesh. He could not ignore his burning desire.

Calum
unbuckled his kilt and let it drop to the floor. His manhood jutted against his
linen shirt. He imagined Anne’s perfect breasts as his fingers brushed the
length of his cock. He gasped and his head dropped back. He wrapped his hand
around his manhood and closed his eyes, envisioning Anne with her gown dropping
to the floor as his kilt just had. Her ivory skin would glow amber in the
firelight. With breasts and shapely hips swaying, she would reach out to him.
He would eagerly step in to meet her. Anne would shutter her eyes, lift her
chin and part her rosy lips for him. She would seduce him with her every
movement.

His
hand milked his cock back and forth as he pictured the triangle that concealed
her treasure. He had put his fingers there, slid them up into the hot, wet core
of her body. She’d parted her legs for him and gave in to her basal needs.
Calum worked his hand faster. He could feel himself inside her, thrusting. A
cry caught in the back of his throat. In seconds his body shuddered with his
release, spilling his seed onto the floorboards.

Panting,
he dropped his hand. Yet again he had succumbed to the weakness of his flesh.
He needed to win Anne’s heart, to prove worthy of her love. Would she return to
Raasay after she’d watched the soldiers drag him to the whipping post, stripped
bare, humiliated for all to see?

Calum
pressed his palms against his face and raked his fingers through his hair. He
could not live knowing she suffered under that tyrant’s roof. He must see her
at least one more time. He bent down and picked up the kerchief she had made.
He held it to his nose and inhaled. Closing his eyes, a trace of her scent
remained. If she wouldn’t have him, so be it, but he had to offer her a chance
to escape Wharton.

***

Riding
with Rorie and his band of ten Douglas men, Anne could now travel during
daylight hours. With a little coaching from the older man, Anne had her
Scottish bonnet pulled down over her forehead and pasted on a venomous scowl
whenever riders came near.