The Adventurer (31 page)

It was late, and the rain was falling hard against the windows as Calum, Isabella, and the others sat around the table in the hall, discussing the unexpected turn of events.

“Freed,” Calum said, somehow unable to believe it.

In an apparent move to pacify those who had been outraged at the actions of the Hanoverian army across Scotland after Culloden, King George had decided to give those prisoners yet being held their freedom. Not everyone, however, was pardoned. There were names that were exempted from that amnesty—those whom the Crown felt had had a heavier hand in inspiring the rebellion.

And one of those names was the Scot known simply as “The Adventurer.”

“They do not know who you are,” Isabella reminded Calum. “They only know the name of your ship.”

“So then we’ll rechristen her.” He looked at her. “We’ll call her
Maris,
maiden of the sea.”

Isabella smiled. “I think that is perfect.”

At the farthest end of the table, the duke was sulking, his face not the only thing making him look blue. “So it seems I’m not to have any adventure.”

Bella stood, circled the table, and patted his back. “You’ve adventures to come, Da. You’ve a new grandchild coming, the first of what will hopefully be many.”

“A grandfather! I’m too young to be a grandfather ...” He shook his head. “It’s all just such a disappointment. I mean I’m glad the Bain fellow is home safe and all, but I was so looking forward to an adventure.” He looked up at his daughter. “It isn’t every day a man gets to paint his face blue.”

The duke, however, could never know that his adventure was yet to come.

It was several days later and Isabella was in the hall putting the finishing touches to a sketch she’d spent the morning creating. It had been a busy, bustling time while the men of Calum’s crew, now free to return to their homes and get on with their lives, readied themselves to leave Castle Wrath. Their last task had been to repaint the hull of the
Adventurer,
giving her a sleek black coat of paint with her new name,
Maris,
emblazoned in gold across her forecastle. Mungo and Hugh had even made a figurehead carving of a dark-haired mermaid wearing a crystal stone. On the morrow, Calum and Alec would be traveling together with Isabella on her maiden voyage, sailing round Whiten Head to Durness and the home of the Mackay chief.

Isabella looked up and smiled when she saw Alec coming into the room. “Alec ... have you seen Calum about? I was hoping to ask him if we were—”

Her words died off when a second person came into the room, looking exactly like the first.

“Calum?” She looked at one, and then the other again. “Alec?”

In order to put a final close to his time as a privateer, Calum had shaved his scruffy beard and trimmed his long hair, pulling it back in much the same manner as his brother. Now they were virtually indistinguishable. They had dressed alike, in the Mackay plaid, and even stood side to side in the same manner, watching her, and enjoying her uncertainty as to which of them was actually her husband.

She walked over to them. So they thought to play a game with her? Well, two, rather,
three
could play that game.

Isabella stopped before the first of them, stood on her toes, and kissed him, kissed him deeply and passionately, wrapping her arms around his neck and melting against him. She left him blinking when she stepped away.

Then she grinned, and took a step toward the other.

“Whoa, lass ...” said the first, whom she already knew to be Calum from the color of his eyes. “I’m not of a mind to share quite everything with my brother.”

Isabella laughed as Calum pulled her back into his arms for another kiss. She looked at him closely, rubbing her hand against the smoothness of his shaven jaw.

“Does my lady miss her pirate?”

“Nay, because he is still here.” She flattened her hand against his chest, felt the pulse beat, the heat of his skin beneath the thin layer of his shirt. “You are still an adventurer in your heart, and you always will be, Calum. ’Tis one of the many things I love about you.”

They turned when Fergus and Lachlann came striding into the room.

“What is it?” said Calum, already reading their dire expressions.

“We’ve just spotted sails. Past Faraid Head. ’Tis a man-of-war.”

The English.

Isabella gasped. “Calum?”

Calum, however, had been expecting it.

“Get Mungo, Hugh, and any of the others who’re still close enough to hear the call o’ the pipes. Lachlann, you know where the arms are?”

“Aye, Calum.”

“Good. You and Alec must go and start bringing them out, loading the muskets, priming the flintlocks. Get Hamish to help you. Druhan and Aidan can, too, but I dinna want them out here when the fighting breaks.”

“Fighting?” Isabella looked at him. “Calum, do you really think it will come to that?”

“We’ve got to be prepared, lass. I’ll do my best to talk them away, but if it comes to a fight, we will defend the castle. No’ when the soldiers arrive, you must go down to the kitchens and see to Kettie and Uilliam. If it should come to a battle, I want you to promise me you will run and take them with you.”

“I’ll not leave you, Calum.”

“Shh. Listen t’ me no’, lass. There’s a tunnel in the back of the cooking hearth in the kitchen. It will lead you and the others to safety. Once you’re away, I want you to head for Durness. Uilliam knows the way. Go to my uncle, the chief, and tell him what has happened.”

Isabella was beginning to get very, very frightened. “Calum, no—”

He pulled her into his arms and held her. “ ’Twill be all right, lass. Trust me.”

And she did. She trusted him completely. She just prayed nothing happened to him.

The next hour flew by on the wing of a lark. Isabella could do nothing more than stand pacing in the hall, watching as those sails drew nearer and nearer while men scrambled all about, setting up muskets and swords, hiding them behind doors and under tables should it become necessary to fight.

She stood at the hall window and peered through Calum’s spyglass to the bay down below the castle cliffs. She could see the soldiers, having anchored their ship, cutting toward the shore in two small oared boats. They landed on the shore and started filing up the winding path toward Castle Wrath, their red coats forming a stark line against the sandy shore.

Isabella thought of Elizabeth, how she had fooled the English captain months earlier in order to help the Stuart prince escape to France. It was on that thought that Isabella suddenly hinged on a plan.

She quickly turned and went to find Calum.

Lord William Blakely truly hoped he hadn’t been sent on a fool’s errand.

When the young St. Clive had arrived at his headquarters, spouting nonsense about rebel pirates and Jacobites, he’d nearly refused to see him. He had, after all, received word just the day before learning of the Act of Indemnity that had been passed in London, thereby making his future policing of the area obsolete. He’d been given orders for an immediate and swift withdrawal, after which he was to return to England to await news of his next post. Lord William, for one, couldn’t wait to quit the barbaric Highlands with its unhealthy climate and backward, Gaelic-spouting savages. Thus when his aide had informed him of St. Clive’s sudden arrival and his wish to see him, his first inclination had been to ignore him.

It wasn’t until St. Clive had threatened the involvement of his father, the Earl of Chilton, that Blakely had consented to listen to his tale. They had shared a bottle of claret and when St. Clive had finished, complete with Isabella’s refusal of his proposal of marriage, Blakely had offered but two words to the young gentleman.

“Go home.”

“What?”

“Just go home, my lord. Even if they were Jacobites, there’s naught I can do any longer. The Crown has granted amnesty to the rebels. Unless one of them is the Young Pretender himself, I cannot touch them. So my best advice is for you to take yourself off to London, get back amongst the ladies and the balls and the gaming houses. You’ll soon forget about the girl.”

“But he is a pirate! There was a price upon his head of some twenty thousand pounds.”

Blakely’s ears had pricked at the figure. “Twenty thousand, you say?”

He could feign he hadn’t heard of the amnesty in time. So Blakely had called together a small detachment of thirty men, and had headed for Cape Wrath, where he was now, climbing the steepest, most inhospitable path he’d ever seen.

When they arrived at the castle walls, there was a lad waiting outside to meet them.

“Good day to you, sir. Come along, quick. You nearly missed it, you did!”

“Missed it?” Blakely said as the lad turned and scurried through the doorway. He turned to St. Clive. “Missed what?”

They had no choice but to follow and did so, walking right into the castle courtyard. There was no one, not a soul walking about to stop them. An old saying flitted through Blakely’s thoughts, something about being wary of enemies with open doors ...

“So where are all these murderous pirates you spoke of, St. Clive?”

The young lord scowled and pushed past him. “Just follow me.”

He led them across to the tower door, up the stairs, along the corridor, and straight to the great hall, where the doors were closed. The sound of voices could be heard coming from within. St. Clive turned to Blakely, smiled smugly, then stepped back to allow the commander to enter before him.

Blakely pushed through the door, shoving it open, just as the man standing at the front of the assembly said, “... and if there be any who know of just cause why these two should not be lawfully joined as husband and wife, let him speak it now or forever afterward hold his peace.”

Every face in the room turned to look at Lord William Blakely.

“What is going on here?” he said, putting as much authority into his voice as he could muster.

A large man, with blond hair and pale blue eyes, stepped forward from the assembly to meet him. “Isna that plainly obvious, Sassenach? We’re havin’ a weddin’.”

Blakely looked at the man and frowned. “Where is the man Calum Mackay?”

“He’s standing at the front of the room, there by the hearth. He’s the groom.”

Blakely was getting a very bad feeling, but he’d come too far to turn back now. He marched forward, his boots clomping to the silence of the room, and came to a stop before the hearth where a man and a woman stood facing him. Another man, obviously the pastor, stood behind them. He was tall as a tree trunk and looking none too pleased at having had his service interrupted.

“You are Calum Mackay?” Blakely said to the groom.

“Aye.”

“I am Lord William Blakely, commander in His Majesty’s army. I’ve come to question you.”

The man, Mackay, scanned the room around them. “I’m a wee bit occupied at the moment, my lord. I was just about to get myself wed.”

The lady who stood as the bride came forward. “He sent you here, didn’t he?” Her voice cracked with emotion.

“Who, miss?”

“Lord Kentigern St. Clive. He swore he would do anything, anything he possibly could to disrupt our wedding. And now”—her blue eyes began to well with big tears—“now he’s done just that. Oh, Calum ...”

She dropped her head to her groom’s chest.

Blakely remembered another old saying, about the misfortunes that came to those who made a bride cry. He lowered his eyes. “I was told that you were the Scottish pirate they call the
Adventurer.”
He glanced around at all the eyes staring at him in condemnation for having ruined this joyous occasion. “Apparently, I was misinformed. I beg you all to accept my deepest apologies.”

He turned, and started to beat a hasty retreat for the door. Son of an earl or not, he would wring St. Clive’s neck personally for this.

And then he paused having spotted something out of the corner of his eye, something that had him turning, crossing the room to the far wall.

“These paintings,” he said. “Where did they come from?”

Standing by the hearth, Calum tried to maintain a sense of calm when he responded. “Paintings, my lord? Which paintings?”

“These
paintings. They look very much like two paintings I purchased from a private collector on the Continent. They were stolen when the ship that was transporting them to England was waylaid by pirates”—he turned to face Calum—“by a particular Scottish pirate known only as ‘The Adventurer.’ I think, Mr. Mackay, you will need to come with me to Durness after all.”

Calum slowly moved his hand toward his belt, ready to take his pistol ...

“The paintings are mine.”

Calum turned as the duke stood from the assembly to join him. He came to stand before the Hanoverian commander, his face no longer blue, but carrying an expression of haughty disapproval. “I bought them in Edinburgh. They are a wedding present for my daughter.”

“And you are?” Blakely asked, clearly not convinced.

“The Duke of Sudeleigh.”

Blakely’s face registered his surprise, as well as his immediate dilemma. While he might suspect that the paintings were the very ones he’d had stolen, and that Calum had been responsible for their thievery, he wasn’t about to call a celebrated English duke a liar. “Well, I am apparently mistaken a second time,” he said. “My apologies, your grace.” He turned for the door.

He had nearly made it before St. Clive came rushing through. “What are you doing? Arrest them! All of them!”

It was then Blakely saw that St. Clive had pulled a sword.

“Put down your weapon, St. Clive.”

“If you’re not going to do it, then I will.”

Blakely, however, had had just about enough of Kentigern St. Clive for one day. He looked at his men who stood waiting at the door. “Seize him.”

Kentigern bolted, rushing toward Isabella who yet stood at the front of the room.

The soldiers pursued him, pouring into the room in a sea of red coats.

Calum’s men, sensing danger, withdrew the pistols and swords they had hidden underneath the table, by their chairs, behind the hearthstone.

Isabella heard someone shout her name, and turned and stood, frozen, as Kentigern raced toward her, the blade of his sword raised, with a look of pure insanity twisting his face like the mask of a demon.