Captured by the Pirate Laird (17 page)

She
took a seat at the back of the boat. Bran and Ian clamored in after her, and
the men on the shore pushed them into the Sound of Raasay. Fast approaching
deep water, Anne’s stomach lurched. She looked down at the dark waves beneath
the skiff and clamped her fingers on the sides of the boat. How small she
seemed compared to this large expanse of water. Anne looked across to the
mainland and tightened her grip. They had a long way to row and the boat rocked
and listed in the wind.

Swallowing
hard, Anne tried not to think of the icy waves beneath her. This was the party that
would accompany her to Carlisle—three men and a boy? And what had Calum meant
by traveling in disguise? Was she putting them in danger? She did not want to
see anyone hurt, and would try to discuss it with Calum when things settled. Besides,
if the wind blustered any harder, they might not even make it to Applecross.

Grasping
the side of the boat, Anne turned and looked over her shoulder. Mara and the
clansmen stood on the shore and waved. The hole in her heart stretched. She had
enjoyed every moment with these hard-working, unpretentious souls. She would
miss them.

As
Brochel Castle became a tiny fortress in the distance, the bottom of the boats
scraped onto the sands of Applecross—the mainland. The lead sinking to the pit
of Anne’s stomach did nothing to lift her spirits at this first stop of a
trudging journey.

Calum
and John quickly pulled their skiff ashore then Calum splashed through the
water. He lifted Anne out of the boat without a word.

“I
could have stepped out on my own.”

“I
didna want ye to wet yer skirts, milady.” He kept his eyes forward and scowled
as he trudged to the beach. Before he set her down, he whispered in her ear,
“Let me do the talking. The English have spies everywhere. If they hear ye
speak, ye’ll put us in harm’s way. Do ye ken?”

Anne
nodded her head. Calum held his back straighter. There was no swagger to his
step. Though she wasn’t completely blind to the danger of traveling in the far
reaches of the country, she honestly had not considered she’d be in peril. John
had gone to Edinburgh and returned safely, but he hadn’t been travelling with
an English lady in his company.

Calum
led them through the windblown sea grass to a set of stables. The men had made
quick work of saddling the horses when a big Scot appeared in the doorway, a
sword in hand. “Calum MacLeod, ye’ll not be taking those horses until ye pay
yer rent.”

Calum
whipped around and faced him, the two men standing eye-to-eye.

Bran
leaned over and whispered in Anne’s ear, “That’s Dougal MacKenzie—they sort of
have an
arrangement
.”

“Och,
MacKenzie, ’tis always a pleasure to see yer bonny smile.” Calum slid his hand
into his sporran without taking his eyes off the Scot. “I’ve got it right here
for ye.” He pulled out a pouch of coins and handed it to the man.

Dougal
weighed it with a bounce and slipped the pouch into his sporran. “Yer brother’s
causing me kin some consternation to the north.”

“What
Ruairi does is nay concern of mine. Raasay no longer answers to Lewis.”

“When
next ye see him, remind him to keep his arse in Lewis and off MacKenzie land.”

Calum
bowed his head. “I’ll send him a missive upon me return.”

Dougal’s
gaze strayed to Anne. He assessed her from head to toe. “And where are ye off
to with a fine lassie in tow?”

Wearing
her day gown, Anne thought she looked the part of a commoner, but her embroidered
dress was a far cry from that of a Scottish woman’s plain kirtle. Her cheeks
prickled with heat as Dougal’s glare raked across her body yet again.

“Returning
me cousin to her family in Edinburgh,” Calum lied.

“Lowlander,
aye? It seems they’re taking on more of the English customs all the time.”

“Aye,”
said Calum, motioning for the others to mount.

Bran
slipped over and gave Anne a lift. Though a man’s saddle, she tried to sit aside,
but Bran shook his head and whispered, “astride.”

Anne
had never ridden with her legs either side of the horse. Thank heavens she had
worn the trews. Her mother would be horrified to see it. Bran helped her adjust
her skirts so they rested across the horse’s rump in the back and gathered in
the front, but as they set out, her seat felt decidedly more secure.

Anne
had never seen land so rugged. She wondered how anyone could grow a thistle,
let alone crops in the rocky terrain. On the first day, she saw neither towns
nor farms and when Calum led them into a copse of trees to make camp she asked,
“Is there no inn?”

All
the men chuckled, and Calum shook his head. “We’ll nay see an inn until we
reach Fort William three days hence.”

Anne
surveyed the clearing. She’d never slept in the wild before—or in the company
of a band of Scotsmen. With no other option, she dismounted. Her legs nearly
gave way beneath her and she leaned against her horse with a pained grunt.

“Not
used to riding, milady?” Bran asked.

“Most
certainly not all day, especially astride.” She tried to walk a few steps. Her
legs were wobbly, as if her ankles and knees would no longer function. They all
watched her. Afraid she’d look like a ninny, Anne put her hand in the small of
her back and stretched. That actually helped. She took a few more steps and the
pain in her legs eased.

“It
always takes me a few minutes to find me legs after a day of hard riding,”
Calum said, gesturing to a clump of grass. “Would ye like to rest while we make
camp?”

Though
her bones ached and she longed to plop down on the grass and curl into a ball,
she declined. “I’d prefer to help.” All the men had been set to task. She
wouldn’t sit by and simply watch. “I shall gather some firewood. Besides, my
legs still need some stretching.”

“Very
well.” Calum loosened the girth and pulled the saddle of Anne’s horse. Calum’s
gaze flicked toward her. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable. Anne reached
out her hand, but Calum had already turned away. Were they to act as mere
acquaintances this entire journey?

She
wanted to scream and weep at the same time. But instead, the exercise did much
to help Anne to regain her composure and her legs. She made countless trips,
hauling in branches and twigs and by the time she dumped the last armload on
the heap, darkness had shrouded the camp.

They
dined on bully beef and oatcakes. Calum passed a flagon of whisky—another of
Friar Pat’s hobbies. Anne took a swig. It burned her throat going down. She
sputtered and gasped, trying not to make a show of her discomfort.

From
across the fire, Calum chuckled. “Ye better go easy on that. They don’t call
the friar’s whisky potent for naught.”

He
seemed more relaxed now, though his gaze still darted between the shadows surrounding
them. Anne longed to have Calum wander around the fire and sit beside her, wrap
his arm over her shoulders and tell her things would be all right. The last
time they’d sat at a fire had been only two nights ago at Beltane. She’d been alive
with desire for him. And now she had no hope she’d ever feel such passion
again.

Anne
stared into the leaping flames and let them mesmerize her. Her entire body
ached but the whisky spread welcomed warmth through her insides.

“What
is it like to be wed by proxy?” Bran asked.

Calum
shook his finger at the lad. “’Tis no question to ask a lady.”

Anne
stirred the fire with a stick. “There’s not much to tell really.” She glanced
up to see four pairs of eyes focused on her, popped wide with great curiosity.
She took in a deep breath. “My uncle rode to Titchfield House and bounded into
the hall with great purpose. He called us all together—my mother, my sisters
and me. Then he said…” Anne swung her fists to her hips and mimicked a deep
masculine voice. “Lady Anne, I have found you a husband at last. By royal
proxy, I have signed and witnessed a marriage decree that formally weds you to the
Baron of Wharton.”

Anne
looked across the stunned faces, illuminated by the firelight and dropped her
hands to her sides. “I could have died. And once I learned his age, I think a
part of me did.”

“How
could he do that without yer consent?” John asked.

“When
my father passed, young King Edward appointed my uncle guardian. Uncle More
left the daily operations to me and took my brother, the heir, to his estate in
Loseley Park for his fostering.” She shook her head. “I digress. The king
entrusted my uncle with complete power until my brother came of age.” Anne
stared into the fire. “I imagine he negotiated quite a good settlement for my
hand, otherwise he would not have been so anxious for me to leave Titchfield.
The coffers were doing quite well, you see.”

A
silent pall hung over the campfire, and Anne stared into the flames. The
crackling took her back to the dreaded day when her life had been swept out
from under her. She didn’t want to look up and see the pity in their
eyes—especially Calum’s eyes.

After
a time, Bran tossed a stick of wood on the fire. “Do ye ken
My Bonnie Lass She Smileth
?”

Anne’s
heart squeezed. The boy had a way of changing the mood toward the better. “Yes.
’Tis an English madrigal. How do you know it?”

Bran
shot an insecure glance at Calum who nodded. “I heard it in an English pub when
we were…”

“That’s
enough.” Calum stopped him.

“Will
ye sing it with me?”

Bran
started the melody. Anne matched his voice with her soprano. On the second verse
they broke into harmony. Anne’s gaze drifted across the fire and caught Calum
staring at her, his eyes dark and intense, hungry—starving. His full lips
parted, and her heart lurched, making her voice warble. She wanted to walk over
and let him cradle her in his lap, but she turned her away so his gaze could no
longer affect her.

When
the song finished, the men applauded. Anne stole a glance at Calum. His gaze
had not changed.
Why does he have to look
at me so? Does he not know it ignites a fire inside my breast?

The
flagon of whisky went around again. Anne took a healthy swig and licked her
lips, pleased she didn’t cough. Before passing it to Bran, she tilted it back
one more time. She needed something to numb the ache in her heart.

When
they unrolled their plaids around the fire, Calum placed his beside Anne. “Laird?
You cannot.”

Calum
rested his claymore between them. “Ye are under me protection and mine’s the
strongest sword. I will see to yer safety, milady.” His voice no longer had the
harsh tone from earlier in the day.

It
was bad enough watching him from across the fire. Now he lay so close, she
could feel the heat radiate from his back. The smell of wood smoke and horse
mixed with his own spicy scent tortured her. If only she could reach out and
touch him—reach out and place her hand on his muscled back—apologize for her
tirade on the beach—ask him to cradle her in his arms and tell her all would be
well.

***

Calum
rolled onto his back and watched the stars. Every night on the trail could not
be as draining as this one or else he would be worn to a splinter by the time
they reached Carlisle. Did Anne have to challenge him at every turn? Why she
could not wear the trews was an act of pure stubbornness. Wearing them under
her skirts—what good did that do? Besides, if she didn’t eventually dress as a
man, he’d have to come up with another plan.
Dammit all
.

Calum
glanced at her. He shouldn’t have looked. Anne’s hair glistened like gold
against the fire. If only he could reach out and draw her into his
embrace—protect her from the night and the chill that comes with darkness. But
she had become cool toward him since he’d visited her chamber with news of the
ransom. He couldn’t hold her aloofness against her. ’Twas the truth that he
sought payment for her, and he hated himself for it. Again and again, he wished
he could will away her proxy marriage. It seemed false, yet it was a lawful
union.

In
two weeks’ time, this would all be a painful memory. He couldn’t bring himself
to think about what it would be like without Anne at the keep, sleeping in the
adjoining chamber. Her smiles, those subtle glances from under her long
eyelashes, would all haunt him forever.

Why
had he not made love to her on Beltane? Damn his needling, chivalrous streak.
He owed nothing to Wharton or the English. Though he could not put his clan in
jeopardy—before Anne, the clan had been his only care. Calum looked to Anne and
watched her in slumber. Perfection. She was born to be a queen, or near enough
to it. His heart formed a lump in his throat. He would do anything to see her
happy.

Calum
closed his eyes and tried to ignore the rock beneath his back. Sleep teased him
throughout the night and he lay on the ground neither asleep nor awake but
aware of every nighttime sound echoing around them.

Dawn
had turned the sky to violet when Calum heard a rustle in the trees. He grasped
his sword, rose to a crouch and peered through the leaves. A buck with a hearty
rack of antlers foraged a mere twenty feet away. The camp must be downwind.
Without a sound, Calum sheathed his sword and reached for his bow and quiver of
arrows.

The
deer moved out of sight, but he could still hear the leaves rustling. Easing
forward, he crouched in the clearing and waited until his senses were
absolutely sure of the beast’s location. Springing up, Calum raced into the
wood, his bow at the ready. Behind a tree, the stag’s head snapped up.

Calum
let his arrow fly. It hit, embedding into the animal’s shoulder. The deer spun
and bolted. Running after it, Calum snatched another arrow. A trail of blood
guided him toward the wounded stag. Calum had to finish him. Not only did they
need the meat, he would not leave the animal to suffer a lengthy death.

The
beast fought against the pain but Calum could tell he was slowing. Calum’s
lungs burned and his thighs ached but he pushed up the steep incline. With
every step, he gained a bit. He could hear the deer’s breathing crackle. It
wouldn’t be long now. The stag turned and faced him with black soulful eyes, as
if wanting to see his killer. Calum’s gut twisted but he had his shot. Without
hesitation, he released the arrow, hitting his mark with a swift kill. The
magnificent beast’s knees buckled and he dropped.

Gritting
his teeth, Calum circled the deer. He tapped him with his foot to ensure the
stag was dead. Only then did he kneel down and cut out the innards to lighten
his load and keep the meat fresh. He hefted the stag over his shoulders. He
could hear the camp stirring as he barreled into the clearing and dropped the
carcass to the ground. “We’ll have a good meal of venison tonight. Tie him to
the pack mule.”

***

The
venison was a nice addition to their diet of bully beef and oatcakes and helped
to sustain them over the next three days. Anne’s body longed for a soft bed and
the warm water of a bath. They rode into Fort William. It wasn’t much of a town,
with a single inn situated along a dirt cart path. By this stage, Anne didn’t
mind. It was the first likeness of a road she’d seen since leaving Portsmouth.
Anne waited with the others while Calum went inside to make arrangements.

When
Calum finally came out, he didn’t look happy. “They have one room available.”
He looked at Anne. “You cannot stay in there alone. Ye’ll take the bed and the
rest of us will sleep on the floor. Apologies, but ’tis the best I could do.”

There
went her imaginings of a bath.

Calum
grasped her elbow and whispered, “Stay close to me. I dunna trust a single
scrapper inside. They’d sooner slit me neck and spirit away with ye draped
across the pommel.”

He
placed his hand in the small of her back and spoke so all could hear. “The
mistress of the inn will serve us a warm meal. Watch yer backs and dunna drink
too much.” He locked eyes with John who fell in at Anne’s other elbow.

When
the door opened, the racket of men telling tales and the stench of sour ale
wafted around them. Inside a candelabra, encrusted with years of wax and dust,
dimly lit the room. Rickety wooden tables huddled in the center of the room
with the bar at the back. Calum led them to a dark corner where they would
attract little attention.

He
held out a chair for Anne and then sat with his back to the wall. This was a
side of Calum she’d never seen. Very cautious, trusting of no one, his face
deadly, his eyes shifted across the room with watchful vigilance. A buxom woman
set a loaf of bread and a carving knife on the table in front of them, behind
her was a greasy-haired man toting a black pot and five bowls. The stew splashed
over the sides as he ladled it up. Anne tried not to cringe. Luncheon had been
a quick bite of bully beef on the trail and she was starving.

Calum
divided the bread and Anne looked at her bowl. She didn’t dare ask what was in
it. Bran dove in, dunking his bread and chewing. Anne carefully dipped a corner
of her bread and nibbled. Finding it palatable, she dipped in for another
taste. The matron tossed a handful of spoons on the table and brought a pitcher
and five tankards.

Anne
rubbed the knot in her shoulder and let out a long breath. The men at the bar
had left them alone. She sipped her ale and looked back over her shoulder. A
big Scot, possibly larger than Calum, stared back. She could smell him from
where she sat. She averted her eyes, the knot in her shoulder seizing up as if
she needed it to tell her to be careful.