Captured by the Pirate Laird (28 page)

Rorie
pulled up his horse, and his men gathered around. “What do ye say, lads? ’Twill
be a long night if we keep going.”

Hamish
leaned forward in the saddle. “I’ve had enough of making camp on the trail. I
say we push on and sleep within the walls of Brochel Castle this night.”

Anne
had not developed a fondness for Rorie’s burly son, but she thanked him under
her breath. She would have died if she had to camp a mere seven miles from
Applecross. She cared not if she had to ride all night. Calum was so close, she
could feel his presence on the breeze as it blew the loose strands of hair
across her face.

Calum
listened to the waves slap the bow of the
Sea
Dragon
. He stood on the forecastle deck and peered north through his spyglass.
When the bloody hell would they come? Waiting was always the worst part before
a battle. In his younger days, he would have given in to his impatience and
weighed anchor, meeting the English head-on at the channel between Raasay and
Rona. But he knew better than that. Lying in wait in the seclusion of the bay,
the
Sea Dragon
was protected on three
sides and with John hidden in Applecross, his flank was covered too.

He’d
wait for weeks for the English to attack if that’s what it took. The high-pitched
scream of a golden eagle sounded overhead.
Anne
.
Calum snapped his head up and watched the bird glide across the sound toward
Applecross. If only he could see the world from its vantage point, he’d be able
to watch Wharton’s every move.

Calum
craned his neck and followed the bird’s flight. Its enormous wingspan carried the
raptor gliding on the wind. Thoughts of Anne flooded back. She’d been so
skilled with the young eagle—and her lovely voice had lulled him. If only she
would return and resume her training, Swan would make a fine raptor for hawking—even
better than a falcon.

Shading
his eyes, Calum gazed up at Bran in the crow’s nest. He’d sent the lad up the
rigging hours ago. He’d need to send up a replacement if the English didn’t
make an appearance within the hour.

Soon
it would be dark. Would the English light their lanterns and give his cannons a
clear target? Calum had ordered no fires to be lit at the castle or on the
ships, except for the cannon torches. If the English took too long to mount
their attack, Calum would be at a further advantage, so long as the moon
remained hidden by clouds.

Calum
turned full circle. The clouds showed no breaks. Mayhap God was with them this
eve.

Bran
blew the boatswain’s whistle. Calum’s stomach lurched. It had begun. The
English had rounded the point of Arnish and would be upon them before the sky
lost its last light. He ran his fingers across the woven pattern of his hilt.
The enemy would espy both the
Sea Dragon
and the keep.

“Come
down, Bran,” Calum hollered. “’Tis time to man the cannons.”

The
English galleon approached like death, quietly skimming the calm sea. The
remnants of the orange-red sunset disappeared as the ship rounded the tip of
the bay. Calum had teams of two manning each cannon. The torches were hidden in
huge pots of iron, casting little light. Calum raised his hand in preparation
for the signal, and watched the evil hull come into sight. “Hold,” he yelled.

The
English ship slowed. Their sails flapped and began to furl. The loud splash of an
anchor dropping twenty feet into the water told him it was time. Calum dropped
his arm. “Now!”

The
Sea Dragon
lurched against the surf
as eight guns fired in rapid succession. The familiar burning pall of sulfur-smoke
billowed over the gun deck. Unable to see, Calum waved his hand in front of his
face. He didn’t need his sight to count eight splashes dunk in the water. Not
one cannonball hit its target. Their decoy revealed, a flash from the English
ship’s porthole lit up the scene before the boom from the cannon boomed across
the water. Calum’s gut clamped down hard as the lead ball whistled far above
his head.

“Set
your distances. Raise the barrels. Fire at will!”

The
second English cannonball splashed feet from the
Sea Dragon’s
hull. The carrack rocked with the jarring blast.
Cannons boomed from both ships. The deck above splintered and groaned as a
cannonball ripped through the planks. The ship listed. Calum’s heart thundered.
She was taking on water.

Calum
dashed below to an unmanned cannon and turned the crank. He lined up the sights
with the enemy ship. He stuffed down a ladle of black powder, hefted the heavy
ball into the barrel and packed it tight with the ramming iron. Peering out the
portal, the smoke cleared. The English ship neared, drifting close to the
starboard rail. Hand-to-hand fighting would start soon. Using his legs, a bead
of sweat streamed from his temple as he rolled the cannon carriage forward. Calum
rechecked his sights. He could not miss this time. Water roared below decks—he
blocked it from his mind. Calum reached for the torch and ignited the match
cord.

The
cannon kicked back and his ears rang. Deaf, he ran up to the main deck. The
blast barreled through their center mast.

Through
the ringing in his ears, the hull groaned as if alive. He pulled his spyglass
from his hip.
The
Golden Sun’s
guns blasted at the English
galleon. The
Sea Dragon’s
stern set
lower in the water. Calum prayed she would hold.

“Prepare
to board!”

The
men dashed up the ladder with Bran last. Calum grasped the lad’s arm. “Climb to
the crow’s nest with yer bow.”

Bran
held up his sword. “But I want to fight.”

“I
gave ye an order, lad. Do as I say else I’ll throw yer skinny arse overboard
and ye can swim home to yer ma.”

The
boy turned tail and scurried up the rigging where he’d be safe.

The
Golden Sun’s
guns thundered. The
English galleon pitched and visibly rose up with a direct hit to her hull. Thick
smoke hung over the ships, and acrid sulfur burned the back of Calum’s throat.

Peering
across to the crippled ship, swarms of Englishmen lined the deck, weapons
ready. Calum swallowed. His clan was far outnumbered.

Drawing
his claymore, he sounded the boatswains whistle three times to signal John. The
English ship continued to drift closer. He grasped the rigging and sailed
across the open water. When the rail of the English ship flew under his feet,
Calum released his grip and dropped to the galleon’s deck. Snarling, he trained
his sword across a mob of bloodthirsty sailors.

English
swords surrounded him. Without hesitation, Calum launched into an attack,
spinning and swinging his trusted claymore in one hand and thrusting his dirk
with the other. He kept his back to the rail to prevent attack from behind.
Cutlasses swung at him so fast, he could not avert his eyes to assess the
battle. Venom raged through his blood and he fought like a madman. Iron clashed
with iron on all sides and he knew the stakes. The MacLeod’s versus the English
in a fight to the death. An English sailor dropped in front of him with an
arrow through his neck
. Good lad, Bran
.

***

At
the sound of cannons, Anne urged her weary horse to a gallop. She headed toward
the outline of the stable. Rorie raced up beside her and tugged on her rein.
“Slow down. Ye’ll startle the MacKenzie riding full bore like that.”

Rorie
was right. Dougal MacKenzie stepped out of his stone hovel, claymore in hand.
“Who’s riding on me lands like they’re hell bent on waging war?”

Anne
opened her mouth to speak, but Rorie boomed over her, “’Tis the Douglas come to
help Calum MacLeod fight the English.”

“English?”
MacKenzie turned toward the sound of a cannon blast. “Is that what he’s on
about? I thought he was testing the guns of his new ship.”

Anne
could no longer hold her tongue. “They’re trying to kill him. We must hurry.”

Dougal
MacKenzie’s eyes narrowed. “Why you’re a lass.” Anne tried to scowl, but he
stepped in closer and squinted his eyes. “You’re the same woman who was with
him weeks ago.”

“Yes.”

MacKenzie
licked his lips. “I thought he was taking ye to Edinburgh, but you’re
English
.” He held up his sword,
confusion furrowing his broad forehead. “Why did ye return?”

Rorie
rode in between them. “She’s MacLeod’s woman. We need to spirit her to the
keep.”

Anne’s
stomach squeezed. Calum’s woman? She’d never heard it put so brashly, but she
liked it. If only Calum would accept her that way. Anne clenched her fingers
around her reins. Why did she have to be married to the devil? With her husband
on the attack, Calum might sooner she drown in the bay.

MacKenzie
eyed her from head to toe, as if appraising a horse on the auction block. “Then
why was he taking ye to Edinburgh?”

She
wasn’t about to allow a delay to appease this man’s over-curious nature. Anne
jabbed her heels into her horse. “We haven’t time for idle chatter.” She’d kept
her marriage to Lord Wharton a secret and wasn’t about to let it come out now.

Rorie
followed her to the stable with MacKenzie on their heels. “Bloody Wharton’s on
that ship and his black henchman too, I’ll bet.”

“Wharton?
There’s not a man in all of Scotland who wouldn’t want a piece of that
ill-breeding bastard.”

Anne
slung her leg over her horse and jumped to the ground. “Then join us. Calum’s
clan is small. He needs every sword.”

MacKenzie
shoved his claymore into its scabbard. “The bloody MacLeods are causing
problems with me kin in the north.”

Anne
knew blood ran thick among Highland kin, but this was war. She would sell her
soul to save Calum. “If you help us now, you have my word Calum will speak to Ruairi
and stop the raids on your family.”

Dougal
folded his arms and planted his feet firmly in the dirt.

Fearless,
Anne walked up to him and jammed her finger into his sternum. “If you choose to
tuck your tail and walk away, Calum will hear about that, too.”

“I’ll
have a chance to skewer Wharton, ye say?”

“Yes.”
Anne jolted at a cannon blast. “If Calum has not already run him through.”

Dougal
looked to Rorie and chuckled. “She’s a spirited lass, no?”

“Ye
dunna ken the half of it.”

Standing
on the Applecross shore, fires blazed on the ships illuminating the mayhem. Swinging
swords glistened in the firelight. Too far to discern carrack from galleon or
English from Scots, Anne’s gut flew to her throat. She ran to a skiff on the
beach and pushed. “We must fight!”

Rorie
grasped Anne’s arm. “We cannot row a tiny skiff into that. We’ll be capsized.”

“I
cannot stand on the shore and watch.” But Anne’s hands shook. If the skiff
capsized, she would surely die before she saw Calum.

“Our
best chance is to row round the battle and protect the keep. If the English break
through MacLeod’s defense, they’ll burn the castle and every soul within.”
Rorie whipped his arm around her waist and easily lifted her into the boat. “Ye
sit there like a good lass while we launch.”

Anne
sat on the forward bench, clutching the side of the boat and tried not to look
at the water. She’d been across the sound in a skiff before. She could do it
again. Her gaze focused on the raging horror before her. Calum was there. She sensed
his commanding power and it heated her blood with determination.
Please Calum, fight well and live. I’m
coming to you. I’ll be in your arms soon.
Stones screeched against the
bottom of the boat until it rocked in the water. The men jumped in beside her
and something on the northern horizon caught her eye. She pointed, dread
filling her veins. “Another ship.”

The
black outline of a three masted vessel traveling under full sail barreled
straight for the battle. Rorie and the men manned the oars while Anne’s eyes
adjusted to the dark. She watched the ship slow. The wind whooshed from the
sails like ghosts hell-bent on murder.

Though
she sat tall in the skiff, her teeth clenched. Anne reached down and brushed
her palm across the hilt of her dirk, tied to the outside of her leg. She would
stand beside Calum and fight to the death, if that’s what God intended.

***

The
English sailors came at Calum in droves. He fought them back. With every kill,
he scanned the deck. Blood splattered, staining the deck black-red. Smoke
billowed from the fires. The ship listed, making it difficult for Calum to keep
his footing. English cutlasses clashed with claymores, with no end in sight. A
man ran at him with a maniacal roar. Calum dropped under the attacker’s sword
and rolled, but the blade skimmed the tip of his shoulder. Hot blood soaked his
shirt. Calum used the momentum of his sword to spring to his feet. With an
upward thrust he impaled the English tar on his blade.

The
wind shifted and smoke from the burning ship filled his lungs. Sputtering with
a cough, Calum ran his arm across his burning eyes. Above the ship’s bow, a
black-and-gold flag sailed into view.
Ruairi
.
Calum raced up the narrow stairs to the forecastle deck. His brother’s carrack
had coasted in close enough for his men to tie to the English galleon’s hull.
Footsteps rattled the floorboards behind. Calum turned, swinging his sword in
an arc, he faced an English sailor.

Calum
fought, pushing his foe toward the narrow stairs until the man lost his footing
and toppled backward. Tumbling down the steps, his neck broke with a crunch.
Calum brandished his sword and blocked the passage to the deck. The English
quartermaster bellowed for more men to attack the stern. Calum stood his ground
and fended them off.