Cadha's Rogue (The Highland Renegades Book 5) (6 page)

He stood with his flag up and tried to think of a way to get Thora out of this. The ship could have been any of a number of privateers who sailed these waters. Colin Bruce, Sneades, Wyatts, Brecht de Witt. He was no match for them, on his own, and privateers were unpredictable when it came to women.

Once the ship was close enough, they tossed ropes across to Valc, and he pulled the rig to loose the mainsail. The giant merchant ship came about to nestle in alongside his small cog. His only choice was to fancy step. They’d never outrun or outfight a crew like this.

Perhaps he could give them money and supplies, and they would be gone. He hoped that was all they would want to take.

Something tugged at his insides when he considered Thora. He would defend her if they threatened her. He would protect her with his life. She would survive.

Once he had secured their ships together, Valc retreated to where Thora remained on the deck, behind the pinnace. She took his hands as he sat, although she looked considerably calmer since the assault stopped. “What’s happening?”

“They’re going to board us.” Valc squeezed her hands. “I will do everything I can to convince them to leave us, but we are still too close to the coast to be really safe from these renegades and privateers.”

She winced. “Wouldn’t it be better to try to out-run them? Surely we’re lighter and smaller.”

“If I had a real crew, but I don’t. I only have… you.” He pulled her closer. “Stay here until I call for you.”

Thora wrestled against his hold. “No, you don’t understand. I can do the talking.”

“Just trust me, Thora. Will you do that?” He narrowed his eyes and took her face in his free hand. She opened her mouth to argue, but some deep shadow crossed her eyes and she pressed those beautiful lips together.

Before he realized he’d done it, Valc passed his thumb across her lips and they parted in anticipation. For a discomposed moment, he considered kissing her. His lips, suddenly dry, needed wetting, and when his tongue slid out to do the job, she did the same.

They hovered there while men swung down from the other ship, but Valc couldn’t tear himself away. He slid his hand down her jaw and took hold of her by the back of the neck. Her quick breath aroused him and he leaned in.

Deep in his belly, something possessive called out for her.
Mine
, he thought.
Mine
. He would protect her with his life.

One of the men on the deck barked out a command in a language Valc didn’t understand. It may have been some form of Gaelic.

Valc stopped descending toward Thora’s inviting lips and responded. “I don’t speak your language.”

When he finally turned to look around, he pulled Thora behind him. Roughly a dozen men were scattered along the deck, swords drawn and pointed at them. The man who spoke was staring at them, more specifically, at Thora.

She had spoken. He hadn’t understood what she said, but she had spoken some halting words in their tongue.

“What did you say?” he whispered out the side of his mouth.

“I think I said we were from Holland and we came in peace,” she whispered back. “I don’t know all of this language.”

The man spoke back, but Thora was quiet.

“Did you understand him?”

“Not precisely.”

“What did he say?”

“I think it was his name.” She looked around. “No, it must have been the name of someone else. He didn’t point at himself. He nodded at the other deck.”

Valc glanced up the sides of the bigger ship until he found the main deck. Several men hung over the edge, arrows notched. In the midst of them, one big man was visible, scowling and surveying. He had a broad scar across his face that stretched from one eye to the opposite side of his chin, across his nose. Valc’s breath stuck in his throat and wouldn’t loose.

Calum Acheson, former Lord of Balfour, pirate laird, terror of the Scottish seas. Valc had never seen the man in person before, although legends of his scarred face had traveled through all the nations that shared a coast with the North Sea.

Valc took Thora’s hand. “That’s the Bastard of Balfour.”

Her gasp told him she’d heard the stories as well. It was rumored that he never let prisoners go free, and that he skinned men alive and hung their bones from his topsail in place of a flag.

In all his years on the water, Valc had managed to avoid the man. Acheson was rumored to patrol the coast of France, hoping to board his father’s ship one day and carve the man a new mouth, just as the old French lord who held Scottish lands had attempted to do to his bastard son.

Valc had always stayed well clear of France, and anywhere rumored to be overly dangerous, because his ship had nearly always contained only himself and Greta. But men like Acheson responded to force, not to cowardice. They would need to be bold.

He held out his arms, making as big a target as he could, in front of Thora. He dropped his shoulders and thrust out his chest. “I wish to speak to your captain. Is there someone aboard your ship who speaks our language?”

The men glanced at each other and then up at their captain. No one appeared to understand. Thora spoke over Valc’s shoulder and he tensed at the sound of her voice.

One of the men whistled up to the deck and there was a rustling on the other ship. A young, blonde boy appeared beside the captain.

“My name is Alwin. I can speak for you, to the captain,” the boy yelled. The big, scarred man said something to him in low tones. “He says you’d best tell the truth, because he can always tell when a man lies to him.”

Valc set his jaw. There was no way on God’s green earth he was going to tell the truth to a privateer famous for his lack of mercy, especially not about the treasure box hidden deep within his hold—its contents, or its presence.

The boy spoke again. “He wishes to know the nature of your crossing.”

“I’m delivering my passenger to her family in Scotland.”

The scarred man spoke one word and the boy winced.

“That was a lie,” he said.

Valc fisted one hand behind him. How he wished he could grasp that sword and take them all down. He would be riddled with arrows for his trouble, and then Thora would have no defender.

“I am only a humble merchant. My cargo is my own. I intend to make port at Dundee and trade with the locals there.”

The man chuckled. “Another lie,” Alwin said. “Tell one more, and we’ll kill you both on the spot.”

“Stop lying to him,” Thora hissed through clenched teeth.

“I can’t tell the truth.” Valc could hear the resignation in his own voice and it set his blood boiling. “You haven’t even told
me
the whole truth.”

Her hand on his shoulder tore at his resolve. He couldn’t see a way out. The pirate would know if he was lying, but he wasn’t sure what would secure their freedom. Thora stepped around him, her hands out toward the ship, and spoke in a loud voice.

“Captain, my name is Cadha de Witt. I am the daughter of Brecht de Witt. I am on my way to Scotland to find the man I have known all my life as my brother, who has trained the last six years with the abbey in Hoorn to practice medicine. I plan to bring him home with me. To my father, and to my family.”

The shock of the lie took Valc’s breath. If they survived this, he would have to teach her how to lie believably. Short, vague sentences with no detail. As close to the truth as possible. She would never make it as a pirate.

The scarred giant uncrossed his arms and put his leg over the rail. He took one of the ropes in his hand and swung down, landing on the deck with a thud. Valc took Thora’s hand and tried to pull her behind him, but she stood her ground as the pirate approached her.

In a heavy accent, Calum Acheson said, “Finally. The truth.”

Chapter Eight

Cadha couldn’t look at Valc. His quick,
humph
-ing breaths told her all she needed to know. Betrayal.

The captain of the privateers had signaled back for his translator and the boy swung over to them in much the same fashion that his captain had.

She couldn’t help a tiny thrill. Was this what her father’s life was like? Confronting lying sailors on the open sea. Striking an imposing figure. Threatening certain death.

She was certain her father had never killed anyone. As certain as the day was long. If the Bastard of Balfour was anything like her father, he wouldn’t consider killing innocent people.

He may still take everything they owned, but at least he would let them live. Cadha swallowed. She was fairly certain he would. Perhaps only a little certain, now that he stood in front of her.

From across the decks, he had seemed older and kinder. But standing here, now, this close to him, she wasn’t as sure.

“Where do you plan to make port?” the boy asked after the scarred pirate spoke to him.

“Wick,” she said.

“Another truth.” The captain appeared to know enough Dutch to pass a few words off. Why was he using a translator if he spoke the language? His Gaelic was so thick and rough, she could only understand one in ten words. Maas had a much smoother pronunciation and had taught her some of the Gaelic tongue, but so long ago. Between her memory and the pirate’s cadence, she was almost lost.

“Who is the man you seek?” Alwin’s voice relaxed. “When you arrive in Wick.”

“His name is Maas Maasen.”

“I do not know this name.” The Captain glanced back at his crew and spoke a few words. Everyone shook their heads.

“We would know if Brecht de Witt had a son, would we not?” the boy translated. The Bastard of Balfour cocked his head and studied her. “And yet, you tell the truth.”

“He was a runaway who tried to join my father’s crew when I was a girl.” Cadha tried to ignore Valc’s constant sighs, each time she revealed a new part of her story, but the captain was not ignoring them. He narrowed his eyes at Valc.

“A runaway who became a son?” the boy said.

“Like a son,” Cadha corrected.

The boy appeared to have some difficulty translating these words. The captain conferred with Alwin for a long minute.

“Tell him that Maas was an orphan when he came to us. He had no father. So Brecht de Witt became his father, gave him a new name, and took him into our house.”

The memories of those days warmed Cadha through. Her heart rolled with such a tide of affection for Maas, she could easily ignore the gruff grunts from behind her.

Valc remained thankfully silent, apart from the force of his breath between his teeth on occasion. She needed the captain’s attention on her, because she would tell the truth. It may be the only thing that would save them both.

The sadness on the big pirate’s scarred face was fleeting, as the translator spoke to him, but she saw it pass like lightning and illuminate his features with heartbreak.

“A new father.” The big man took a step forward and loomed over her. “I do not know the meaning of this.” His words were halting, and Cadha heard Valc tense at her back. He drew closer as well, nearly cupping her body with his own.

The pirate looked over her shoulder. His eyes traveled up, down, around, and he took a step back.

“My father loves Maas, as though he were his own son.”

The pirate sneered and muttered something. The boy spoke quickly, “No father could love a son who wasn’t his own. Many fathers don’t even love the sons they have. You tell the truth, and yet you lie. You surely lie.”

“Please, sir.” Cadha knelt before the Bastard of Balfour, her hands clasped. “Please, let me go to Wick and find Maas so I can bring him home.”

The captain took another step backward and crossed his arms.

Cadha stayed on her knees. “For my father, who holds you in the highest respect, and speaks your name with reverence. I beg you, please.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Valc mirroring the captain’s pose and glancing off toward the empty horizon. Not with longing, however. Pain etched his features.

A sudden wave of regret bathed her and she found tears stinging the edges of her vision. She would ask his forgiveness. She couldn’t bear the thought of him hating her.

“This is my decision.” The captain placed his hand on Alwin’s shoulder as the boy translated. “We will accompany you to Wick, so I can see this young man who would inspire a father to turn his back on the way of the world and take a strange boy as his son. I want to hear this from his own lips so I can judge the truth of it for myself.”

Cadha rolled one shoulder. The man did not understand the customs of her people. What if Maas could not explain his adoption in any more clear terms than Alwin had? Would he assume they were lying? Would he kill them?

“I will leave four of my men with you,” the captain’s boy said. “This one, I will throw overboard for lying to me. No one lies to me.”

The Bastard of Balfour pointed at Valc and barked an order. Two men stepped forward and took Valc by each arm. They began to drag him across to the starboard bow.

Her heart weighed anchor and dropped. She ran after the men and climbed on the back of one. “Stop! You can’t do that.”

“Do not worry,” the captain’s translator said. “I will give you four of my own men to take the ship in to Wick. You do not need this one.”

They were only a few steps from the railing. Cadha clawed one of the men and he dropped Valc’s arm, reaching for her instead. He grabbed her by the hair and her entire scalp burned.

“Don’t touch me,” she screamed.

A thick smack sounded and the man’s grip on her hair slackened. She looked up to see Valc hauling back for another punch. This time, he attacked the other crew member.

“Get your hands off her.” His voice was tight and he punched the man a second time.

“You can’t do this,” Cadha yelled.

“I can do whatever I want,” the boy translated. “I told you, no one lies to me.”

Another two crewmen ran for them and caught Valc’s arms. Cadha rolled around on the deck with the two downed men and smacked them. “Stop it. You can’t.”

“Throw him over,” the captain ordered.

Valc scrambled at their grip and tried to reach for Cadha, wordless and red faced. She held out her hands. “Please, don’t.”