Captured by the Pirate Laird (25 page)

“It
must be yer potent mead.” Calum grimaced as the bandages pulled against his
tender flesh. “How is it looking?”

“I
think yer wounds need to air a bit. Have another tot of me mead and I’ll bring
ye some porridge.”

“Porridge
and a slab of
meat
.”

Calum
guzzled another goblet of mead and lay on his side with the bedclothes around
his hips. The cool air on his back eased the sting and the friar’s mead numbed his
head. Mara and Pat closed the door but Mara’s voice drifted through the wood.
“’Tis a good sign he’s being cantankerous.”

He’d
be a fair bit more cantankerous if they kept treating him like an invalid. He
needed to heal quickly. He closed his eyes and saw Anne looking like a goddess
in her red dress, her long tresses glistening gold in the sun. With vivid
clarity he recalled the slap Wharton had delivered across her face. If only his
hands had not been bound to the post, Calum would have murdered the bastard
right there in the town square. Wharton’s slap was no tap, but a vicious hit
that had echoed across the bailey walls—and in a public forum. What was that
man capable of behind closed doors?
Anything
.

Calum
pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, blocking the unwanted images
of the brutish man forcing himself upon Lady Anne. With a grunt, he pushed up
and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He took his weight onto his feet. Wobbling,
his legs gave out. He fell back onto the bed and roared as his bare back swiped
against the woolen blanket.
Where is my
meat? I cannot lie here like a sickly old man. Our very existence is in peril.

The
clamor of horse hooves roused Anne from her bout of self-pity. Long shadows in
the abandoned keep stretched across the open courtyard. Anne wanted to rush out
and cry for help, but remembering the English patrol, she scrambled for the
protection of the cavernous walls.

“Fresh
tracks,” A bass voice echoed through the archway.

“Looks
like he’s injured—he’s using a staff.”

Anne
tensed at the singing hiss of swords sliding from their scabbards. Her staff
lay in the center of the courtyard. She hid behind a crumbling column. Metal
horseshoes clanged against the cobblestones. She held her breath. The first
rider appeared with his sword at the ready. Anne squinted. With a grey beard, he
wore a blue and dark green kilt.
A Scot
.

Taking
a deep breath, she rose limped into the light, holding her hands up in
surrender. “I am seeking sanctuary.”

Five
stout men rode in behind the old man, who reined his horse to a stop. He gaped
down at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. Anne pulled off her bonnet
and released her braid. The man wrapped his fingers around his beard and tugged.

Anne
surveyed the astonished faces and swallowed. “This
is
Scotland, is it not?”

“Aye.”

How
fortunate the big fellow had found his tongue. Anne took a step forward. “Can
you help me?”

“That
depends.” He sheathed his sword and dismounted, sizing her up as he walked
near. Anne kept her hands out. With a weathered face, dark circles sagged under
the Scot’s guarded grey eyes. When he got within a few feet of her, he stopped
and folded his arms. “You’re English
and
a woman.”

Anne’s
fingers began to tremble and she clasped her hands together. “Yes. I need to
find Calum MacLeod on the isle of Raasay.” Her stomach growled and she clenched
her hands tighter.

“Raasay,
’tis up near Skye, no?”

“Yes.”

“You’re
a fair bit off course.” He scratched his beard. “What do ye want with the likes
of a MacLeod?”

“I’m
running from the English—he’s running from the English. They captured him in
Carlisle and nearly killed him—sentenced him to be hanged, drawn and
quartered—and then he escaped. I’m trying to find him.” Anne’s mind raced ahead.
She sounded flippant as if her story were contrived.

The
Scot waved his hands across his body. “You’re speaking gibberish. Are ye
running from those English scouts we saw yonder?”

Anne
hung her head. “I think so.”

The
big man knitted his brows and to took another step toward her when a voice
called from the archway. “English soldiers approach.”

In
one motion, the Scot drew his sword and pointed toward the remains of a small
building. “Hide in the chapel.”

Anne
nodded and touched the old man’s elbow. “What is your name, friend?”

“Rorie
Douglas. Now be gone with ye.”

Anne
hobbled into the chapel and found a narrow window that opened to the courtyard.
Rorie and his men scattered into the shadows as the last sliver of sunshine
fell to the west and the moon cast an eerie glow over the ruin.

Horse
hooves echoed outside the keep, but this time they scraped and grated in an
unwelcomed screech. A dozen or more soldiers cautiously walked their horses
through the archway.

“That’s
far enough, Sassenach.” Rorie’s voice echoed between the stone walls, but Anne
couldn’t be sure where it came from. The soldiers stopped, their helmeted heads
turning with wary, searching eyes.

Anne
recognized the captain of the guard—she’d seen him in Carlisle. He held up his
hand. “We mean you no harm. We’re searching for an Englishwoman.”

Anne
held her breath.
Please do not repeat my
title
.

“She
could be dressed as a man,” the captain continued. “We found tracks leading
this way…”

An
uneasy silence pealed through the air. Would Rorie reveal her presence?

“What
is she to you?” Rorie delivered the words with an unmistakable lilt of
curiosity.

“She’s
wanted for treason against Lord Wharton.”

A
fireball ignited in Anne’s gut.
Treason?
For what? For jumping out a window?

The
captain spun his horse in a circle. “You wouldn’t want to cross Lord
Wharton—not after what he did to your keep.”

Anne
gasped. The baron was responsible for this burnt-out shell? With not another
moment to think, Rorie and his men sprang from the shadows, bellowing like wild
animals.

The
English captain reached for his sword but an arrow skewered him in the chest.
Anne looked up to the wall walk and spotted an archer. He made swift work of
leveling the odds while Rorie and his men met the English in a mounted battle
of swords. Rorie rode his horse into the center of the skirmish, fighting two
at once. Blood spewed, a hand severed, the helmeted head of a soldier flew to
the turf and rolled. The dead man’s stunned horse galloped wildly out the
stronghold archway.

Anne
clutched her satchel against her chest as she watched the deadly mayhem in the
moonlight. She clenched her chattering teeth. A fallen sword lay twenty feet
from the chapel. She inched toward the door and peeked around.

Rorie’s
booming voice exploded over her. “They’re fleeing lads. Give chase!”

In
seconds, the Scots raced through the archway and Anne was left alone with
nearly a dozen dead men. She tiptoed out of the chapel and grasped the sword.
Much heavier than it looked, the weapon scraped across the cobblestones. The captain
moaned. She snapped her head up and stared. The arrow pierced through his chest
and he gurgled as if air escaped through the wound.

Dragging
the sword, Anne moved toward him, wary. He inclined his head toward her. “I
knew y-you were here.”

Something
in his throat caught as if he had more to say. Anne took another step toward
him and bent closer.

“Whore.”

Anne
stood motionless. Is that what he thought, or did he speak the baron’s words?
He was a pawn to a tyrant, a paid soldier carrying out his duty—dying for it.

She
didn’t want anyone killed for her sake, even if they did take Lord Wharton’s
blood money. She kneeled beside him and bowed her head. “In the name of the
Father, Son and Holy Ghost…”

The
soldier’s eyes went vacant. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his
mouth. Anne finished her prayer choked back a dry heave burning her throat. She
doubled over as the retch she’d strained to swallow racked her body with
burning convulsions of yellow bile.

Her
shoulders tensed as the clap of shod horse hooves clicked on the cobblestones.

“Finished
him for me, did ye?”

Anne
jerked up to meet the old man’s battle worn glare.

He
reined his horse beside her. “We need to have a talk, you and I.”

Anne
wiped her hand across her mouth and drew in a heavy breath. “As you wish.”

He
dismounted and reached in his saddlebag. “When was the last time ye ate?”

Her
hand shook as she brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “One…no, two days.”

“Come,
sit with me.”

Anne
looked into his eyes. They weren’t the dark predator eyes she had seen at the
inn in Fort William. Yes, in the moonlight they were dark and stern, but she
saw something else, something gentler, and prayed it was kindness.

She
followed him to a fallen stone column and sat. He opened a parcel of cloth and
pulled out an oatcake. “Eat.”

Anne
salivated at the smell of oats and a hint of bacon fat. Her eyes drifted to the
parcel and caught sight of a few rashers before he folded the cloth again. She
bit off a chunk, trying to be as ladylike as possible.

“What
is your name?”

“Anne
Wriothesley.” She used her maiden name. That wasn’t a lie.

Rorie
drummed his fingers, repeating the name and then appeared to realize who she
was. “You’re the daughter of an earl? Southampton, no?”

“A
younger, insignificant daughter.”

“What
are ye doing all the way up here in man’s clothing, accused of treason?”

“’Tis
a long story.”

Rorie
spread his big palms. “I’m no’ going anywhere.”

She’d
tell him everything except the part about being married to Baron Wharton. Her
mind raced. How was she going to leave that out? “If you consider jumping out
of a window treason, then I am guilty. If not, a very nasty man thinks he can
ruin everyone’s lives including yours and mine.”

“That
would be Thomas Wharton?”

“Yes.”
She began with the
Flying Swan
with
the twist being she had boarded the ship to
wed
Wharton, not that she was already legally married. A weight lifted from her
shoulders as she told it all, the time on Raasay, the fact Calum didn’t want to
take her to Carlisle, but would not lay claim to another man’s contract to wed.

Rorie
removed his bonnet and scratched his head. “I’d have staked me claim with a
lassie as beautiful as you.”

“Calum
thought he was doing the right thing—until they captured him and stretched him
on the rack.” She shuddered. “They stripped him naked, took him to the square
and lashed him until his back streamed with blood.”

Rorie
grimaced and Anne continued with the story—her near rape by Wharton and Calum’s
escape.

“I
guarantee if Calum MacLeod is on the run from the baron, there will be many
more Englishmen than these.” He gestured to the poor souls his men were hauling
out for burial. “Ye say his keep’s on Raasay?”

“Yes,
and Wharton will stop at nothing to see him dead.”

“Wharton
is a smart man. ’Tis why me home’s in such a shambles. But if I were he with
the House of Lords behind me, I’d no’ ride to Raasay. I’d sail.”

A
twinge of hope made Anne’s heart stutter. “Would you like to see Wharton dead?”

“Aye,
I dream every night of sending that bastard to his grave. He earned his bloody
barony at me family’s expense.” Rorie cleared his throat. “Excuse me for the
course language, milady.”

Anne
pointed to her trews. “If you will excuse me for my unladylike dress.”

“I
now understand your need for discretion.”

Anne
stood and faced him. “If you take me to Applecross, we can row a skiff to
Raasay, and when Wharton shoots English cannons at Brochel Castle, we shall be
there to send him to his death.”

He
scratched his beard and shook his head. “It sounds bloody tempting. The lady wife
might throw up a bit of a fuss though.”

Anne
reached for her satchel. “I can pay you for my passage—and a horse. I’m afraid
I’ve injured my ankle and it’s in sore need of rest.” Careful not to let him
see her pouch, she searched inside with her fingers and pulled out two silver
shillings.

“Now
why didna ye say ye could pay in coin?” Chuckling, he grasped her hand and
folded her fingers over the money. “Ye keep it, lass. I’d pay
you
just for a chance to bury me
claymore in that thieving bastard’s heart.”

***

Wharton
stood at his window and watched Master Denton canter toward the citadel with a
line of mounted soldiers following. With sharp tugs on each finger, the baron
cracked his knuckles. The discomfort it caused cemented his obsession. He lay
awake at night imagining new ways he could torture the Scot. Wharton licked his
lips. He should have sliced off the thieving bastard’s manhood when he had the
chance.

Thomas
yanked so hard, his thumb slipped out of the socket. With a rub, he slid it
back into place. Anne would still be here if Wharton hadn’t toyed with the Scot—Calum
she’d called him. But Wharton had wanted to draw out the bastard’s pain, show
his new wife no one crossed him. Ever. Then the bitch had escaped and made a
mockery of their marriage. He would have filed for an annulment, but that
wasn’t necessary. He’d be free when she was dead.

Where
was the damnable Captain of the Guard? They’d set out days ago and still hadn’t
returned with her. Wharton could not believe the incompetence surrounding him. Must
he do everything himself? That onion-eyed Captain had convinced him to stay
behind.
Fool
.

Wharton
clenched his fists. Did the Scot have men waiting to spirit her away? The
bastard had tricked him, taken his money—and now stolen and debauched his wife.
The soldiers could follow her trail all the way to Raasay. Good. There would be
more Englishmen up there to fight when he arrived. Yes, he would sail into the
frigid hell they called Scotland and take back what was rightfully his and more.

A
black cavern swelled in his chest and he rubbed his fingers across the pommel
of his sword. Killing them both would bring him satisfaction. Once they were
dead, the hate which consumed him would ebb. He could then return to Alnwick
and enjoy the comfort of Northumberland’s hospitality—and a serving wench or
two.