A Pirate's Wife for Me (43 page)

Stupid, worthless tact. Stupid, worthless pistol. She stole a quick glance around, saw a stout walking stick that leaned against the wall. Never taking her gaze from his hostile advance, she edged toward the staff, grasped one end and brought it in front of her.

"What are you going to do with that?" he snarled. "There are no windows to push me out of here. You've lost your element of surprise." His voice got louder, echoing through the stone chamber. "And I'm going to get my revenge!" He charged.

She sidestepped.

He smacked the corner of the table and gave an audible, "Oof!" He whirled and grabbed her arm — her wounded arm — and yanked her toward him.

She felt the stitches tear the skin.

Agony vanquished her misgivings and brought her to instant, blinding rage.

She thumped the narrow end of the staff onto his instep.

He roared with surprise and distress, and gave a hop backward.

Fiercely, she swung the staff and slammed it between his legs.

He went down, swearing, clutching his ballocks. He writhed on the floor.

Flipping the stick, she used the heavy end to bash him on the side of the head.

His skull made the sound of a ripe melon splitting, and he collapsed, unconscious.

She stood, breathing hard and weeping with pain. She was bleeding again, not the slow oozing but blood gushing from a deep, now-open stab wound.

She had to get to the imposter in the tower before she lost consciousness.

But she could see the rise and fall of Volker's chest. She hadn't killed him. So first, she had to somehow secure him.

A coil of rope hung on the wall. She dropped the staff, fetched the rope and using good Scottish knots and her uninjured hand, she tightly trussed him with his hands and legs twisted up behind him.

She hoped he woke in agonizing discomfort. It would serve him right.

Next she wrestled the wooden bar across the outer doors; she could not have the mercenaries return and interrupt her mission.

Two men remained above on the parapet, preparing to shoot the cannon at her pirates, but surely loading the cannon would keep them busy long enough for her to free the prisoner.

She looked around for keys. She found them tossed on the table, two heavy, well-worn keys on an iron ring.

Finally. Something had gone right.

She had the pistol in her reticule. She took the walking stick as both weapon and support.

The first flight of stone stairs rose straight up to the second level, and ended in a long corridor. Many men's footsteps marked the dusty floor. She followed the trail to a heavy, armored door. She opened it, stepped through and saw the round base of the tower … and the long, bare, narrow stairway winding up and out of sight.

She sagged against the cool stone wall. She had been doggedly ignoring the fact that she had to climb those rickety steps, steps with no handrail, all the way to the top.

But she could do this. A slight breeze slipped down like a cool waterfall. Long, narrow arrow slits lit her way.

She risked a glance at her bandage.

Blood soaked it through. Just looking at it made her squeamish. Squeamish! Her, wild Caitlin of the proud MacLean clan!

She put her foot on first one step. Then the other. Then the other.

True, she had never before been stabbed. But she had fought with the boys, fallen from trees, broken her arm, landed in a wasp's nest, swum in a frigid Scottish stream … when had she turned into such a sissy?

She climbed around and around. She used the staff to test the steps.

She could probably blame Taran for her cowardice. In fact, she intended to.

She huddled close to the cold, dirty gray stones, and kept one hand against them for balance. As she ascended, the drop-off grew greater and greater; she didn't dare look down for fear she would get dizzy.

Yes. She had become a mincing, delicate flower. Taran had a lot to answer for.

About two thirds of the way up, the fingers holding the heavy iron ring went suddenly numb; she almost dropped the keys. "No, no," she muttered. "No, no, no."

She needed those keys. Using one would be so much easier than picking the lock. And faster. Time was of the essence. She
needed
those keys.

She hung them on her arm like a bracelet.

She didn't look down. She had already come so far. She could do this.

She paused two steps from the top landing. She needed to catch her breath, exalt at her success — and consider the oak door, armored with steel plating. At the bottom, a slit had been cut to pass through food and water.

The poor woman was truly a prisoner, cut off from daily human contact. Cate felt sorry for her. Or she would, if the hussy wasn't in line to take Cate's place. She hardly sounded sarcastic at all when she said, "Hang on, Princess, your liberator is here."

The oak was thick. The slit was small. The lady probably couldn't hear her.

But Cate's own words kept her focused.

She climbed the last steps, fumbled with the keys, grasped one, inserted it into the lock.

It didn't turn.

Wrong key.

She grasped the other key. She poked it at the wavering keyhole once, twice. She inserted it. She turned it.

She turned it!
She stared, dumbfounded. She had done it. She had rescued Taran’s princess!

Gently, she pushed the door open.

The chamber was round, with windows that opened at intervals all the way around to let in light and air. The furnishings were luxurious for a prison, and neat, which showed an orderly disposition. But nothing moved. She could see no one, no young woman shrieked at her appearance or demanded an explanation for taking so long with the rescue. Of course, the replacement princess was probably shy. Or she thought one of the soldiers had appeared. Cate could take comfort in knowing she wasn't the only milquetoast involved in this mission.

Was the girl cowering under the bed? Hiding in the cupboard?

Cate moved cautiously into the room. "Miss? Lady? Princess?"

She heard a noise behind her.

Instinctively, Cate ducked. Something whistled pasted her ear, barely missing her head. She swiveled to face the woman holding a half-inch steel bar.

This female — petite, young, beautiful, with blazing blue eyes and curly blond hair — thrust the point of the rod under Cate's chin. "Who are you? Speak now, before I kill you where you stand!"

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

"I'm the woman who was sent rescue you."
A little shocked and a lot tired, Cate staggered backward. "If you're going to be bullheaded about it, do you mind if I sit down?"

The fake queen frowned. "Rescue me? Why? Who sent you?"

"His Highness Prince Taran —"

"Who
is Prince Taran?"

"Prince Antonio. He's using an alias." Which called to mind a question Cate had been steadfastly ignoring; was their marriage valid? She supposed that in the current circumstances, it didn't matter … but it did to the young bride she had been. It mattered to the woman she was today.

"An alias," the female said. "Yes. I suppose he
would
use an alias."

Cate did not so much decide to sit down as the act of sitting became imperative. A straight wooden chair beckoned; she took it. "He made me promise to get you out of here safely."

Dark lashes surrounded those blazing blue — and disbelieving — eyes. "Why you? Why should I trust you?"

Cate had to quell her irritation before she could reply, and she didn't quell it very well. "I didn't trick the mercenaries into leaving the fortress, lock the door behind them, knock out Volker, and drag my bleeding body up those interminable stairs because I was worried about
you
."

The fake queen got an arrested expression on her face. "You knocked out Volker?"

"I tied him up like a Highland sheep for the shearing."

"How?"

"In my time, I've tied a few Highland sheep."

"No, I meant how did you knock him…? Never mind." The lady smiled and offered her hand. "I'm Miss Jeannette Bennett."

"I'm Caitlin MacLean." Cate could have taken the preferred hand, but such an action required a depth of courtesy and charity beyond Cate's shallow being. So instead indicated the bloody pad on her arm, using as an excuse to withhold that gesture of friendship.

Miss Jeannette Bennett was immediately sympathetic and helpful. "That looks bad. Let me look at it."

"We don't have time." Cate really needed to get up.

She really didn't know if her legs could hold her.

"If you bleed to death, you'll be no good to anyone." Jeannette unwound the soaked rags, lifted the bandage, and tsked. "Two stitches are torn." With brisk efficiency, she cleaned the wound with soap and water.

While she worked, Cate distracted herself by scrutinizing Jeannette Bennett. Lovely girl. Really lovely. "How did
you
come to replace the queen?"

"I'm Cenorinian. My family lives in exile in England, and my grandparents want sunshine and warmth before they die. They wish to come home." Jeannette pulled a length of soft cloth from her trunk, fashioned a square and placed it over the wound. "So I volunteered for the duty. When Sir Davies ordered Queen Sibeol to make an appearance in her open carriage, we — the prince and I — arranged an accident. The switch was made. The mercenaries did not suspect, and Sir Davies was none the wiser."

"But you look nothing like Queen Sibeol. How have you fooled the mercenaries all this time?"

"Prince Antonio — or Taran, as you call him — taught me the details of disguise. Cosmetics, a scarf, my hair is white-blond, and most important — why would the mercenaries look at me? They believe me to be an old woman. They are a dastardly lot who, if they had to live by their wits, would be bankrupt." Jeannette smirked at her own turn of phrase, then turned serious. "If Sir Davies had returned,
then
I would have been in trouble."

"You are clever and brave … for a princess." Oops. Bitterness may have seeped into Cate's tone.

"I'm not a princess." Jeannette grabbed a beautifully embroidered canvas and pressed it over the pad.

Cate tried to pull away. "Don't use something so fine!"

"Working on the wearisome thing is all I've had to do these last months." Jeannette extracted a velvet ribbon from her sewing basket. "If I never see another embroidery frame, it will be too soon." She wrapped the ribbon around Cate's arm and prepared to tighten it. "This is going to hurt."

It did. Tears dribbled down Cate's face as Jeannette tied the knot.

When Jeannette was done, she said, "Sip some water. It will revive you, and we can escape this accursed fortress."

Cate sipped, at first cautiously, then eagerly. "Before we leave — two of the mercenaries stayed in the fortress. They are loading the cannon and —"

A massive boom shook the tower.

"I've got to stop them." Cate stood up. "They're shooting at my pirates!"

Jeannette ran to the window and looked out. "Two ships are in the bay, one flying the flag of Cenorina — those must be your pirates — and other flying a foreign flag. Portuguese, I think. They are engaged in battle!"

Another boom shook the tower.

"And the mercenaries are firing at both!"

Cate half-expected Jeannette to say two women could not affect the outcome of this battle and insist on escape.

Instead she came to Cate's side and offered her arm. "We must aid your pirates!"

As they descended the winding stair, the cannon roared again.

Cate jumped.

Jeannette patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll save the day."

"You are very brave." Cate felt as old and sour as a wrinkled grape.

"I
am brave? You were stabbed in some terrible struggle, came straightaway and captured an impregnable fortress, then overcame the meanest mercenary in the troop. You put me to shame! Anyway" — Jeannette stopped to allow Cate a moment of rest — "I pretend to be brave to fool everyone else, and if I fool myself too, all the better."

Cate doused the unwanted stirrings of empathy with a vat of exasperation. She did not want — could not stand to — like this woman.

When they reached the bottom, Cate stood panting while Jeannette checked the bandage.

"The blood loss has eased," Jeannette said. "We must make our way to the ramparts, but first — if you'll stay here, I'll go find weapons."

"Here. It's loaded." Cate handed over the pistol, and saluted her with the staff. "I used this to smash Volker's ballocks … he fainted."

"Caitlin MacLean, I adore you. This way." Jeannette helped Cate down the corridor and then up another flight of stairs, not so high this time, and with sunlight streaming from the open door at the top.