Black Raven's Lady: Highland Lairds Trilogy (11 page)

“No need,” Keir said, motioning for him to come in. “Lady Raine and I have finished our conversation.”

Raine clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to speak further in front of the young man. Without another word she whirled and hurried out of the cabin.

Hunting lodge near the Scottish border

The duke of Northumberland’s estate

North Yorkshire, England

A
RCHIBALD
C
AMP
BELL, EARL
of Argyll, slowly rose to his feet when Northumberland came into the room. After his journey from Edinburgh in a jolting, uncomfortable carriage, Archibald’s foot, tortured with gout, ached incessantly, and he’d propped it on a low stool.

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” Henry Percy said, clearly in a jovial mood. He was attired in hunting garb, his face flushed with the exuberance of outdoor sport. Peeling off his gloves and tossing them on a nearby table, he appeared unaware of his older guest’s discomfort. He was followed by a liveried servant, who went to a sideboard, which held a decanter of wine and several goblets.

“Only just,” Archibald replied, eyeing the brash Englishman thoughtfully. He wondered if the impetuous young noble had gained any patience since they’d last met. “May I offer my felicitations on your appointment as Warden of the Eastern Marches? King Henry must think highly of you.”

The duke of Northumberland smiled and strode across the room to shake Archibald’s hand. “It was in the way of a reward for escorting Princess Margaret safely to Scotland and her marriage to your king. I trust you see the irony in the honor bestowed on me by my grateful sovereign.”

“I hope your hunting was successful today,” Archibald remarked politely, as the serving man poured the wine and presented the goblet on a silver tray. “I spied several deer as I came through your park this morning.”

The earl of Argyll had no intention of discussing their failed plot in front of the servant. He hadn’t reached his middle years by being careless. The wrong word in the wrong ear, and they could still lose their heads on the executioner’s block for their attempt to sabotage the Treaty of Perpetual Peace between Scotland and England.

“Indeed,” Northumberland replied, his eyes alight with satisfaction. “We’ll have fresh venison for dinner this evening. And I’ll have a magnificent rack of antlers to show for it.” He looked up proudly at the trophies from previous hunts displayed on the lodge walls. “That will be all,” he told his servant.

As the houseman silently exited the room, the two men sank into the lodge’s comfortable chairs. They hadn’t seen each other since the royal wedding at Holyroodhouse the previous summer, when their plans had been overset in such a disastrous manner. At the time they’d felt lucky to come away with their heads still on their shoulders.

But Argyll had kept up a secret correspondence with the English duke. And when rebellion broke out in the Hebrides, both noblemen saw their chance to gain from the confusion and turmoil, while at the same time even the score with the notorious Hellhounds of Scotland.

“All has gone according to plan, I take it?” Archibald asked.

“Three English-built carracks are on their way to the Hebrides,” Northumberland replied with smug complacency. “Each privateer is under the command of an experienced captain, with a full complement of sailors. When joined by the rebellious clans, they will bring unmatched military power into the Scottish Isles.”

“Ah, good news, good news,” Archibald said. “I’ve sent word to the chief of Clan MacMurchaidh to meet the ships at Port nan Long on the western coast of North Uist with the sea charts to navigate the treacherous Sound of Harris. My brother-in-law, Torcall, will deliver a force of Macdonalds and their allies, including his own kinsmen from the Isle of Lewis. Nine hundred fighting men armed with longbows and crossbows will transfer from their unarmed galleys onto the English carracks with their cannons.”

“And you’ve brought the second payment for the privateers?”

“In gold crowns,” Archibald replied. He pressed his fingertips in a steeple beneath his chin, contemplating their scheme and all the possibilities of failure.

He knew the handsome, swaggering duke had only recently been awarded the title by a grateful King Henry VII. Being given to lavish displays of magnificence—Northumberland had produced a spectacle of enormous proportions for the Tudor princess on her journey to Edinburgh—the young nobleman was now saddled with crippling debt.

Although Scotland and England were ostensibly at peace, the alliance having been secured by the marriage of King James IV and Princess Margaret Tudor, the Macdonald rebellion offered an opportunity to weaken the royal grip on the Highlands and Isles. A boon to the clan chiefs and to any nobles quick enough and strong enough to take advantage of the shifting political landscape.

“And Donald Dubh?” Northumberland asked with a gesture of mild interest.

“My bastard grandson is presently in the custody of MacMurchaidh,” Archibald said softly, as he studied the large ruby ring on his finger. “He will be safe enough.”

The earl of Argyll didn’t need to mention that unfortunate lad was a mere tool in the hands of the rebel forces. Archibald had imprisoned his daughter’s bairn—Donald Dubh Macdonald, direct heir to Iain Macdonald, the last high chief and lord of the Isles—in the fortress of Innischonaill since he was a child. Only to be released by the perfidy of Clan MacIan of Glencoe, thereby unleashing the dogs of war and the golden chance to gain immeasurable wealth. And for Archibald Campbell, the coveted trade route to Ireland.

“Tell me, Argyll,” Northumberland asked with curiosity, “why do you hate the three Hellhounds so intensely?”

Archibald rose to his feet, whipped into fury by the mere mention of their names. He limped back and forth across the room, clenching the stem of his wineglass. “The eldest brother, Rory MacLean, thwarted my plans to wed my son to the maid of Glencoe. Had I been able to accomplish that feat, the alliance between the Glencoe Macdonalds and the Campbells would have strengthened my hold on the entire western coast of Scotland.”

“I can see why you despise MacLean,” Northumberland said with an indifferent shrug. He leaned back in his chair and crossed a booted foot over the opposite knee. “And of course, we both have reason to hate Lachlan MacRath for ruining our plans to kill his mistress, Lady Francine, and her daughter on their journey to Edinburgh. Too bad my cousin, Lychester, was killed in the misfiring of the plot.”

Archibald tossed off the rest of his wine and moved to the sideboard to pour another glass. “If not for that bastard Kinrath,” he grated, “we’d have infuriated the English king and destroyed the treaty of peace between our countries. Both of us would have benefited from the resultant chaos.”

“Nothing’s more profitable than war,” Northumberland agreed as he held out his glass. “It weakens and impoverishes the monarchy and makes the nobility stronger and thus richer.” He smiled in apparent resignation. “It was a good plan, except for the interference of the earl of Kinrath. And so, why your hatred for the youngest brother?”

Archibald filled the duke’s glass with the ruby liquid. “The chief of Clan MacNeil is merely a means to an end. If I can stop him from putting down the rebellion in the Hebrides, I can once again begin to gain control of the western coast of the Highlands. And,” he added with a smile, raising his glass in salute, “nothing could exact such sweet revenge as killing the Hellhounds’ youngest brother.”

Chapter 9

T
HE
B
LACK
R
AVEN
flew before the wind, running south along the western coast of the Isle of Lewis. On her long, pointed bowsprit, a carved black raven, its wings outspread, soared above the waves. The galleon was making a strong seven knots, the green sea slipping fast by her prow. Two days after leaving Loch Roag, the fair weather continued to hold, and Keir had ordered all sails the ship could bear.

Keir stood on the quarterdeck, looking up at the fore and main topsails and the lookouts high in the rigging above him. The sustained fine weather seemed to lift the crew’s spirits. The previous evening the seamen had sung and danced on the forecastle to the beat of a drum and the shrill notes of a hornpipe.

The frivolity had lured Raine out of her self-imposed exile in her cabin, where she’d hidden since seeing him naked two days ago. She had laughed with delight at their antics as the crew performed the sailors’ jig, the watches vying for top honor as the best dancers onboard. The mere presence of the exquisite lady enlivened everyone, even the officers, and the usually stoic al-Rahman chuckled, his deep baritone rumbling in his chest. The men were a trace more subdued this morning under the bright glare of the summer sun.

Keir understood his crew’s attempts to please Lady Raine, for he’d waited impatiently for her to resume her frequent walks on the main deck. At every opportunity he’d sent special treats by way of the ship’s two middies. He had been certain the lass wouldn’t refuse any offerings brought by Ethan and Robbie Gibson. He’d been right on that score. She’d invited them to share in the plum pudding and berry cobbler. But Keir’s best efforts to coax her into forgiving his surly behavior or his steadfast disbelief in faeries had gone unrequited.

From the corner of his eye, Keir caught a flash of blue. He turned his head, expecting to see Raine coming up the companionway. Instead, he spotted the ship’s lantern-jawed quartermaster. The usually solemn Simon Ramsay had tied his dark brown pigtail with a brightly colored ribbon. Though not an unusual adornment for a sailor, this particular hairband matched the deep sky-blue of one Raine had worn on several occasions.

At that moment the officer of the watch came to report the log. “Seven knots, if you please, sir.”

Keir nodded. “Very well, Mr. Buchanan. Tell the bosun he can pipe the men to breakfast now.”

Just as the burly helmsman moved away, Macraith joined Keir on the quarterdeck. “I’ve insisted on Lady Raine having breakfast with us this morning,” his uncle informed him in a low tone. When Keir made no reply, he continued. “ ’Tisn’t right for the lassie to eat alone in her cabin. No matter what happened between the two of you in that hell-tarnished place, there’s nay call for her to be treated like a prisoner.”

Keir scowled at his uncle. “Raine has not been confined to her quarters, dammit. She’s made the choice to take her meals in solitary. And nothing of any consequence happened at Calanais. The belief that the standing stones are somehow magical is mere superstition.”

As the two men strode across the deck toward Keir’s quarters, Macraith gave a cynical snort. “All the same, I’ve never kenned the lass to be unsociable before. You, howsoever, can be a downright pain in the arse when you’ve a mind to. So if there’s a problem between the two of you, I’d wager the fault is yours.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion of my behavior or anyone else’s,” Keir replied sharply.

They entered his cabin to find the comely lassie under discussion already seated at the table and being served by an attentive Hector MacFarlane, who hovered over her like a self-appointed protector. Apparently, Macraith wasn’t the only one aware of the problems between Keir and Raine. She looked up with a tentative smile, as though unsure of her reception in his quarters.

“My dear Lady Raine,” Macraith said, his weather-seamed features creased in a welcoming grin. He sank down on the chair beside her. “Pleased to see you’ve joined us this morning. We’ve missed your uplifting conversation and your bonny smile.”

It was the first time Keir had been within speaking distance of Raine since she’d entered his cabin unannounced two days ago. She wore a rose-colored gown with frilly lace trim adorning her bodice. Keir noticed immediately that she’d woven a red velvet ribbon into her thick braid. Against her ebony hair, the effect was stunning.

He reached out and lifted the end of the long braid with his index finger. “Quite a lovely ribbon,” he said. “Have you, by any chance, mislaid your blue one?”

“Oh, not at all,” she replied. “I know exactly where it is. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively as he took his seat across from her. “No particular reason.”

Macraith glanced from one to the other. When he met Keir’s gaze, it was clear he, too, had spotted Ramsay’s bright blue plumage.

Avoiding either man’s gaze, Raine looked down at the eggs on her plate and felt the heat rising on her cheeks. She silently prayed that she wasn’t flushing noticeably. Good Lord. She hadn’t thought The MacNeil would notice such a trifling thing as a lady’s hairband.

Since the day she’d been forced to surrender her coins into Keir’s keeping, Raine had puzzled over how she could retrieve them. She’d come to the conclusion that attempting to pry them out of Keir’s grasp would merely prove an aggravating waste of time. She’d have to find another way to gain the means to search for Torcall MacMurchaidh. God knew, there’d be no point in leaving the ship without money.

To add to her difficulty, Barrows took his responsibilities as her sea-daddy seriously, although sometimes he did leave Raine in her cabin to her own devices while he took Ethan and Robbie to the main deck to practice knotting and splicing. The previous afternoon she’d slipped out of her quarters and discovered a small group of seamen on the gun deck below, clustered between two cannons and betting on a game of dice. The answer had come to her in that second. She could win the coins she needed to make her escape.

Since she had no money to wager, Raine offered her hair ribbons, believing any winners would set them aside for their sweethearts back home. She’d certainly been wrong on that score.

But first she had to learn the rules of the game they were playing, which took a good while longer than she’d expected. In the end she did acquire thirty farthings—either by sheer luck or the grace of God, she wasn’t sure which. But not before losing several hairbands.

“We’re going to take our reckoning at noon,” Keir said, interrupting her worried thoughts. “After which we’ll calculate our present location and begin charting our course through the Sound of Harris. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

“I’d enjoy that!” she answered, delighted he was willing to set their bad feelings aside.

“Fine,” he replied, a ghost of a smile skipping about the corners of his lips. “We can meet on the quarterdeck at midday.”

“Thank you, Keir,” she said. She met his deep green eyes, filled with amusement, and the memory of his nude backside flashed before her. The thought of the well-defined muscles of his sculptured male body made her feel suddenly short of breath. Uncertain if he was remembering her intrusion on his bath as well, she turned to his uncle, searching frantically for a suitable topic. “You seem so completely at home onboard ship, Macraith. Did you go to sea at an early age?”

He awarded her with a broad, encouraging grin. “Aye, lass. I was born on the Isle of Barra. Salt water runs in my blood. Don’t you ken that the MacNeils are descended from Celtic sea kings?”

Keir gave a derisive bark of laughter. “What my uncle means, Raine, is that we come from a long line of pirates. In earlier days Kisimuth Castle provided Clan MacNeil with an impregnable lair in which they could hide from punishment for their crimes of pillaging and rapine.”

Unconcerned with the harsh indictment of their mutual ancestors, Macraith merely shrugged. “We’re nay the only clan in the Isles to have indulged in a bit of piracy in the past.”

Hesitant to ask any questions, Raine waited for further explanation. No one had ever spoken to her about Keir’s father. Not even Isabel Cameron, who knew everything about everyone in the Highlands and Isles. Once Raine had asked her aunt about Keir’s deceased sire.

“Never listen to foolish gossip,” Lady Isabel had told Raine with a chiding wag of her finger. Her hazel eyes, usually flashing with a mysterious, otherworldly humor, grew serious. “Keir MacNeil’s mother loves him dearly. Let that be the end of it.”

Her answer had only deepened the mystery for Raine. Good Lord above, why wouldn’t a mother love her son? How could that even come into question?

“Did you enjoy your exploration of the standing stones?” Macraith asked, interrupting her reverie.

Startled, Raine met Keir’s hooded gaze. He’d been taking advantage of the opportunity to study her closely, perhaps wondering about her thoughts and what she knew about the violent history of his clan. “Very much,” she replied quietly. She glanced about to find that Hector had disappeared, most likely into the ship’s galley for another platter of food. “I mean to say, the stones were fascinating. We witnessed a lunar event that can only be described as spectacular. Did Keir tell you about it?”

“Nay,” Macraith answered with a hearty chuckle. “My nephew refused to say a word about your excursion ashore. Except that the time slipped by too fast. He claimed he hadn’t realized how long you’d been absent from the ship.”

“There was something strange about the passage of time,” Raine agreed. She could have given more of an explanation, but the stern cast of Keir’s jaw warned her against it. Perhaps Macraith would be more receptive to the presence of the Tuatha De Danann at the ancient site, but now was not the time to suggest it.

At that moment Hector reappeared with a plate of pears and figs especially for her, and the conversation moved on to less dangerous topics.

T
HE SUN WAS
shining directly overhead when Lady Raine joined Keir and Hector MacFarlane on the forecastle with their two energetic pupils. Keir smiled in welcome at the sight of her, pleased she was willing to be in his company once again. After breakfasting together, her mortification at seeing him naked had apparently faded. As for himself, that memory had been seared into his brain. The mere thought of her curious gaze moving across his bare flesh sent a flood of sexual desire to his groin. A desire he was determined to repress.

She wore a pair of faded breeches and a striped Guernsey shirt that Hector had outgrown.

“I don’t wish to interrupt your class,” Raine said in an apologetic tone. “I’ll just stand quietly and watch.”

Keir motioned for her to move closer. “You’re not interrupting, Lady Raine. Mr. MacFarlane is giving the instructions this afternoon. It’s important the lads learn to use all the various mariner’s instruments.”

Ethan looked up from the instrument he held in both hands. “We’ve been practicing on the quadrant, Lady Raine.” The twelve-year-old offered the nautical tool to her with a gracious smile. “We use it to measure the altitude of the sun at noon.”

Raine took the brass instrument made in the shape of a quarter circle and studied it with open curiosity. “How does it work?”

“Here,” Hector said, coming to stand beside her. His blue eyes gleamed with pride at the chance to teach the lovely lady. “Hold the quadrant so the plum bob falls straight down toward the deck at your feet,” he explained, turning it to the correct position for her. “That establishes a vertical line of reference.”

“See the markings on the quadrant,” Robbie said excitedly, anxious to be a part of the lesson. His bright hair glistened like a copper helmet in the sunshine. Holding up his own quadrant, he pointed to the calibrations etched on the brass. “These lines are called degrees, my lady.”

Hector nodded, smiling with pride for his enthusiastic students. “The quantitative measurement provided by the quadrant is used to determine the ship’s present latitude,” he told her. “We’ll be pleased to demonstrate.”

“Oh, I’d like that,” she exclaimed. Her eyes lit up with the joy of learning something new and challenging.

’Twas a trait Keir had admired in Raine since she was a youngster quizzing him on his latest voyage. On each visit to Archnacarry Manor, he’d shown her on one of Gideon’s maps the exact route he’d taken to the Mediterranean or to the coast of Africa. Her thirst for knowledge had always been insatiable.

Keir watched with pleasure as the two lads, under Hector’s supervision, happily explained the use of the quadrant to the ship’s newest recruit.

“Tonight,” Hector said at the end of the lesson, “we’ll work on using the cross-staff to determine the altitude of Polaris.” He dismissed Robbie and Ethan to their sea-daddy’s charge and bowed to Raine before leaving.

At that moment Keir took Raine’s elbow and eased her away from the others on deck. “I wanted to ask you again, lass, whether you’ve misplaced any of your ribbons.”

She looked up at him in wide-eyed surprise. “I haven’t mislaid a thing,” she assured him.

Baffled by her reply, Keir glanced around the busy deck. Not only did Ramsay sport a blue ribbon suspiciously similar to one Keir had seen in Raine’s hair, but Apollonius, the ship’s master gunner, had tied his long black pigtail with a bright green hairband as well. From across the length of the main deck, Keir could see him talking with Abid al-Rahman. Deep in conversation, the
Raven
’s baldheaded Moorish navigator turned slightly. Even from this distance, a silver disk could be seen hanging at the end of a new lavender ribbon tied around his neck.

“ ’Tis a serious crime for a seaman to steal anything,” Keir told Raine. “We can’t allow thievery on board. It sows discord amongst the men, which can be disastrous in battle when they must work as a cohesive unit—especially a gun crew. So you must tell me if anything of yours is missing.”

Her jet eyes enormous in her heart-shaped face, Raine gazed at him solemnly. “Nothing of mine has disappeared.”

“You’d tell me if it did?’ he persisted. “You wouldn’t try to hide a theft out of a mistaken sense of protecting someone from punishment?”