Read Captured by the Pirate Laird Online
Authors: Amy Jarecki
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Medieval, #Historical Romance, #Scottish, #Highlands, #Adveneture, #Rennaisasance, #Pirates, #Sizzling Hot
Captured by the Pirate Laird
Captured
By the Pirate Laird
~ Book One: Highland Force Series ~
by
Amy Jarecki
Copyright
© 2014, Amy Jarecki
Jarecki, Amy
Captured
by the Pirate Laird
ISBN:
First Release: February,
2014
Book
Cover Design by: Kim Killion
All rights reserved.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in
whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and
forbidden.
This is a work of
fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s
imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead,
places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are
purely coincidental.
To my good friend and inspiring
author, Jen Greyson. Thank you for being there. It’s wonderful to have a friend
who understands the peaks and valleys of this industry. Also, many thanks the very
talented and generous author, Grace Burrowes, who spent an entire holiday
season helping me edit this book.
Table of Contents
England.
Portsmouth Dockyard, 25
th
March, 1559
Anne
resisted the temptation to turn and flutter one last wave at her mother. The Countess
of Southampton had said goodbye on the pier and would not wish her daughter to
exhibit additional emotion. Wearing a blue velvet gown, her hair coiled under a
caul net and veil, Anne played the part of baroness with no outward sign of the
storm roiling beneath her skin.
Clutching
Anne’s arm, Hanna walked up the gangway beside her. “I still cannot believe he
wouldn’t allow me to escort you all the way to northern England. Heaven’s stars,
you’ll be alone.”
“I’ll
be fine.” Anne gave her serving maid a squeeze. “But I shall miss you most of
all.”
“If
you need me when you reach Alnwick, ask the baron to send a missive and I’ll
come straight away.”
A
vise clamped around Anne’s heart. “I know you will.”
They
neared the galleon and a sailor reached for Anne’s hand.
Hanna
released her grasp and gestured forward. “Milady.”
Anne
stepped aboard the
Flying Swan
—the
ship that would ferry her away from everything familiar. Hanna wrapped her in a
warm embrace. “A baron who won’t pay for a single serving maid to accompany his
new bride doesn’t deserve her—at least not a lady as gracious as you.”
Anne
closed her eyes and squeezed them, trying not to tremble. “Everything will be
fine. I shall write often and plead with the Lord Wharton to send for you.” She
pulled back and held Hanna at arm’s length. “You shall see. His lordship will
be generous. He merely doesn’t know me yet—doesn’t know our history.”
Anne
watched her maid, her dearest friend return to Mother’s carriage. Alone she
stood, abandoned on the deck of the galleon. Five days it would take to sail to
the mouth of the River Aln where she would meet her husband for the first time.
Five days without a serving maid?
Anne still did not understand the baron’s reasoning.
She
glanced at her gloves, covering the bare ring finger and shuddered.
He’s how much older?
Anne
could see only the top of the carriage as it wound through the busy dockyard,
and she reached her hand out as if she could touch it one last time. But the countess’s
carriage turned and disappeared behind the stone wall of the Fox and Hounds Inn.
Anne
gripped the rail and craned her neck, but Mother was gone—Hanna gone—Anne’s
life winding away, like the wheels that rolled back to Titchfield House without
her. Her heart gripped her chest like a musket had blown a gaping hole through
it. There she stood, like a pawn to the highest bidder.
Anne’s
eyes drifted to the boisterous scene on the pier. Men loaded barrels onto carts
pulled by big draft horses and merchants argued. She searched for a familiar
face, and the hole in her heart enlarged when she recognized not a single person.
She squared her shoulders.
I’d best become
accustomed to it
.
Behind
her, the quartermaster shouted the command to cast off. She leaned over the
rail to watch the ship ease away from the pier with the water’s swirling
torrent. To jump now would be certain death, having never learned to swim. For
a second, she contemplated it. Death
could
be better than sharing a bed with a husband older than her own deceased father.
Captain
Fortescue moved in beside her. “May I show you to your quarters, Lady Anne?” He
smiled, wearing a feathered cap and neat black beard, fashionably groomed to a
point and highlighted by the white ruff of his collar. His dark eyes reflected
a glint of humor—he smirked. How comical it must be to escort a lady to a
husband whom she had never met.
“Thank
you, sir.”
“You
will be under my protection until we meet the baron. If you should want for
anything, please ask.”
“That
is very kind of you,” she said, though the humor in his eyes was not kind in
the least.
“’Tis
nothing. You are a guest aboard the
Flying
Swan
and with good wind, we should reach your new husband in no time. She’s
a grand ship, none faster.”
The
deck swarmed with able-bodied sailors, swinging from the rigging as the wind slapped
and ballooned the giant sails.
While
the quartermaster bellowed orders, Captain Fortescue led her aft to a narrow
corridor. He used a key to open her cabin door and stepped aside. “I must
apologize. I’m sure there is not as much space as a lady of your stature would
be accustomed.”
The
tiny room held a small bed, leaving room enough for a narrow aisle between the
cot and her luggage, which lined the far wall. A wooden chair, a round table, a
bowl and ewer with a looking glass bolted above it—crude accommodations by
anyone’s imagination. “This will be fine.” Anne squeezed past the captain,
bumping her hip on one of her trunks.
“Very
well.” He reached for the latch. “My officers and I would be honored if you
would dine with us.”
“I’d
like that. Thank you.”
Perhaps they’ll
serve a draught of hemlock.
“I
shall knock on your door when it is time.” He moved to pull it closed, but
stopped. “’Tis best to keep the door locked when you are within.”
Anne
turned the lock and then covered her face with her hands. Only now did she
allow the tears to come.
Lord
Wharton, first Baron of Wharton, had seen her once at Queen Elizabeth’s
coronation five months ago. A hundred times, Anne had filed through her memory
of that visit to court. She and her sisters had met so many people, so many
grand men had kissed her hand and introduced themselves, but she could not
place the baron—a grey haired man, no doubt—if he had hair. Anne staggered to
the bed, buried her face in the pillow and surrendered to her silent sobs.
Since
the day her uncle had come to Titchfield House and revealed she had been wed, Anne
needed smelling salts to keep her wits. She hadn’t taken to her bed with a bout
of melancholy because her marriage had been performed by proxy. The age of the
man mortified her. At eight and fifty, Lord Wharton was a widower with four
children who were all older than Anne—past her prime at nine and ten.
She
sat up with a jolt and slammed her fist into the pillow. She would have to meet
those children. Would she ever be able to look them in the eye when they
referred to her as stepmother? The pillow dropped to the floor.
Surely there are grandchildren as well
.
Anne
pressed her knuckles against her temples and fought to regain control. She
would overcome this. She would prove herself worthy to the baron’s estate just
as she had done at Titchfield House. His lordship might be old, but he’d
discover he had married far more than a pretty courtier. Anne steadied her
breath and repeated her title, “Baroness of Wharton.” Married to a stranger nine
and thirty years her senior.
***
Calum
MacLeod stood on the deck of the
Sea
Dragon
and peered through the spyglass. Just as his informants had advised,
the new English racing galleon had set sail. The ship was bound for the north,
laden with grain and cloth—all things his people on Raasay desperately needed.
Things his miserly brother, living off the fat on the Isle of Lewis, refused to
part with.
Calum
intended to seize it for them. His father had gone to great lengths to separate
the clan and secure a charter to name him laird over the Hebride isle. Yes, it
was insignificant compared to Lewis, but his clansmen were fighters. The people
of Raasay fought through the eight months of winter, raising their bairns as
they ploughed the rocky soil, more often frozen than not. Calum aimed to remedy
their plight by building their wealth or dying in the process. On one thing he
was firm, he would not recline in his keep while his people starved.
He
salivated, admiring the galleon’s sleek lines. With three masts and a trim
hull, she could outrun any ship in Her Majesty’s fleet, including Calum’s own
carrack, his beloved
Sea Dragon
.
“She’s
a beauty.” John Urquhart, cousin on his mother’s side, quartermaster, and Calum’s
closest friend stood beside him.
“Aye,
and her cargo will keep us fed until the harvest.”
John
didn’t have quite as much height as Calum, but they shared the family’s
tendency toward auburn hair and blue eyes. “I’m thinking more of the riches
we’ll gain once she’s ours.”
Calum
lowered the spyglass and grinned. “Our people will prosper and then we can kick
our heels up and enjoy the spoils.”
“Do
ye think ye can ever walk away? The sea’s yer mistress.”
“True.”
Calum watched the sun kiss the western horizon. “We’ll not have time to think on
it until the keep is finished and our clan is strong.”
“I
still dunna understand it.”
“What?”
“Why
yer father commissioned ye Chief of Raasay, but kept all the riches in Lewis.”
“’Twas
not me place to question Da’s decision—only to honor it.”
“Aye,
but he just kicked ye out to make a go with the poor souls on the island.”
“He
gave me his trust.” Calum ran his hand along the worn rail of his ship. “Besides,
I received a fair bit more than a second son could hope for.”
“If
we dunna starve, ’twill be a blessing.”
“If
we plunder that ship, we’ll no’ starve.”
***
The
tap on her door roused Anne from sleep. “Supper, my lady.”
The
thought of food brought on a heave. She gulped back burning bile and tottered
across the floor. Cracking open the door, she tried to focus on the captain,
but his smile rose and fell with the rolling waves. Swallowing, she leaned
heavily on the latch. “I am afraid I have not yet found my sea legs. Will you consider
it discourteous if I excuse myself?”
“Your
color is a bit pale. It can take a few days for a land maiden to gain her
legs.” He bowed. “I shall have my cabin boy bring you a tray.”
“Thank
you.”
Anne
lay back on her bed and stared at the wooden rafters. The swells of the ocean
had increased since she’d cried herself to sleep. She hugged her pillow and closed
her eyes, trying to will away the sickness.
Anne
sat up when the boy unlocked her door and pushed inside. He set a silver tray
on the table and lit the lamp on her wall. “Ye might want to eat quick, milady.
The sea’s angry tonight and your meal’s likely to skip over the table lips and fall
to the floor.”
“My
thanks.” Anne eyed the latch. “Pardon me, but does everyone have a key to my stateroom?”
“Just
the captain. He gave it to me to fetch your meal.”
When
the boy left, she locked the door and stared at the delightful prospect of
overcooked vegetables and boiled fish. The ship listed starboard, then to port,
and the tray crashed upside down. Crouching to tidy the mess, she pushed the
tray up against the wall, but eyed the wine. Still corked in a small glass
bottle, Anne pulled out the stopper.
She
scrunched her face when she held it to her nose. The sharp bouquet indicated
its cheap vintage. She looked at the goblet that lay on its side, covered with white
sauce. Shrugging, she held the bottle to her lips.
’Tis only me and perhaps it will take the edge off the sickness.
Anne
took a sip and let the tart liquid slide across her tongue. The wine tasted
better than it smelled—though not a vintage Titchfield House would serve. Imagining
she would need to become accustomed to a great many new experiences, she tilted
the bottle and drank again. In no time, the wine warmed her insides and numbed
the pain, both in her gut and in her heart.
When
the bottle was empty, she managed to remove her stomacher and untie her stays.
It would be a long voyage without Hanna. Anne ran her fingers along her unbound
ribs and shook out the skirts of her shift. Free of binding laces, she could
finally breathe and crawl under the warmth of woolen bedclothes. She willed
sleep to take her to a place where earl’s daughters were not traded for riches
and lands.
***
Anne’s
eyes flew open when a blast shook her awake. She swiped a hand across her forehead.
Am I dreaming?
The ship’s floorboards
groaned, followed by a raucous thud and a shout. “Fire!” A roaring boom shook
the galleon.
Cannons.
Hurried
footsteps clamored overhead. The quartermaster bellowed commands, his voice
high pitched and quick, like a rooster with its head on the block.
Her
skin prickled, she couldn’t breathe. The walls closed in.
A
cannon blast shook her bed. Heart hammering, Anne threw back the bedclothes and
raced for her cabin door. She stumbled into the empty corridor. The ship rocked
as she staggered toward the main deck. She braced her hands on the wall to keep
herself upright.
She
pushed the outer door, but it held fast. Leaning her shoulder into it, she
shoved. A harsh gale caught it and flung the door open, sending her sprawling
onto the deck.
