Captured by the Pirate Laird (5 page)

“No
longer than necessary—a month, mayhap two.”

“I
did not ask for this,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Nor
did I, but you’re here just like that cold wind that’s cutting through yer
dress.” His eyes trailed down the length of it and back up again. “We have
naught but to make the most of things.”

A
fireball ignited in the pit of Anne’s stomach, flaring and melting away the
cold. He looked at her with eyes an intensity that took her breath away. No man
had ever made her insides sizzle and ache—as if he were the devil himself. Calum
was a rake, a thief, and there was every possibility he would hang for his
crimes. She would die if he ever discovered the effect he had on her
sensibilities. She must cling to her resolve.

She
twisted the headpiece in her hands. “How long do you think you can carry on,
plundering Her Majesty’s ships before you meet your end?”

His
face turned dark and he stepped toward her. “Ye do have a quick tongue for a
noble lassie.” Anne inhaled—sea salt, musk and danger. He leaned in, his lips
an inch from her ear. “I like that.”

With
a gasp, Anne faced him. From the flash of the gold flecks in his eyes, she knew
she’d hit a nerve with her terse remark, but she wouldn’t allow him to think
he’d charmed her with his devilish smile and powerful shoulders.

“Rounding
Raasay, Captain,” John called from the deck above.

Calum
rolled his arm in an exaggerated bow. “Lady Anne.” He marched up to the quarterdeck
leaving her alone at the rail.

Bran
skittered past. “Come, milady. Ye’ll have a better view from the forecastle.”

Bran
tugged on her hand and led her forward up the steps to the bow of the ship. He
ran to the forward rail and beckoned her with a wave of his arm. “There she
is—Raasay.”

The
island loomed like a dark shadow wedged between the shores of the Scottish
mainland and the Isle of Skye. Spindly birch trees jutted up between the rocks,
bent as if old before their time. As the ship sailed south, the terrain became lusher
with bracken ferns shaded by healthier trees than she’d seen to the north.
Ahead, verdant pastureland touched the shore of a beach covered with layers of
smooth stone.

Bran
pointed. “There it is—Brochel Castle.”

Sitting
atop a stony crag, the fortress walls extended skyward. Outer baily walls surrounded
a single square donjon tower that peaked above a ring of mist, as if separated
from the earth. Anne spotted guards between the crenel notches. A bell sounded,
and the beach erupted with activity as people ran to the shore. Waving their
arms, their indiscernible shouts carried away by the wind.

“See
the tower?” Bran yanked on her hand. “’Twas a broken shell when Calum came. We
carted the stone from the north of the island and built it sturdy.”

Anne
admired the pride written across the boy’s face. “It sounds like hard work.”

“Aye,
and it took an eternity, but we’ve a fine keep now.”

“Where
did you live before the repairs?”

“There
are long houses at the back of the battlements. Some clan families still use
them.”

Anne
stole a look across to the quarterdeck. Calum stood at the helm, taking charge
of the ship’s anchoring. The men jumped to his every command without question. His
hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene as if he were born to captain a ship.
His gaze snapped up, meeting Anne’s. She quickly averted her attention back to
Bran, giving a nervous laugh and hoping Calum didn’t think she’d been watching him
all that time.

Bran
peeled away from the rail and danced around the deck. “We’ll have a grand
gathering tonight!”

The
boy’s antics made her laugh. Anne wished she could celebrate, but a cold shiver
shot up her spine instead. The dark grey walls of the castle were archaic, far
less refined than Titchfield House. She fixed her gaze on the tower. Would
Calum lock her in a room at the top until her ransom was arranged? Her head
swooned. The tower was the highest point in sight. It precariously ruled over
the pasture and beach as if it teetered on the brink of collapse.

Anne
crossed her arms and grasped her shoulders. She’d reached the next stage of her
misadventure. Her gaze fell to the dark swells of water below. There was no
need to dip her fingers in the sea to determine it was cold. The chill wafted
up on the salty air.

Watching
the men lower a skiff, she let out a breath. She looked behind her at the
mainland across the sound. Would she find a chance to steal away?

Anne
hurried back to her stateroom. Locking the door behind her, she pulled her
treasure box out from under the mattress. Calum’s men would offload her trunks.
God only knew what they would steal. She quickly removed her shillings and jewels
and jammed them in her pockets.

She
jumped at a knock on her door.

“Are
ye ready to disembark, milady?”

“A
moment.” She closed the lid and fastened the buckles.

When
she opened the door, she couldn’t breathe. Clad in a kilt of fine wool with his
red plaid draped across his shoulder and a massive claymore swinging from his
belt, Calum looked the ideal laird. How could any woman not be enchanted by his
blue eyes, glittering from a face so wickedly handsome? One eyebrow arched with
the up-ticked corner of his mouth. The laird had thought to escort her ashore
himself? Possibly his manners were genuine.

“My
lord, I thought you’d send Bran or John to collect me.”

“And
trust my most precious cargo to another?”

Anne
laughed at the devious smile dancing across his face. “Your charm is futile
with me, laird Calum.” So she wished him to think.

He
held up her father’s dagger. “I believe this is yers.”

She
plucked it from his fingers, a confusing concoction of resentment, surprise and
appreciation caught her off guard. “You trust me then?”

“I
think we can agree to a truce.” His muscles rippled as he stepped forward and offered
his arm. “Are ye ready, milady?”

She
placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He looked past her and assessed her
trunks. “The men will see to it your things are delivered to your chamber.”

“My
chamber? And where might that be?”

“I
planned to have Mara prepare the guest room for you.”

“Guest
room?” She touched her hand to her chest. “I thought you might lock me in the
tower.”

“I
would have you comfortable during yer stay.” He ran a finger across the gold
brooch that clasped his plaid. “Unless ye would prefer to be treated as a
prisoner.”

“Are
your guest quarters in the tower?”

“Two
floors above the great hall. The clan guard occupies the floors above that.” He
gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

When
they walked onto the deck, Anne thought she would die when Bran held out a rope
harness fashioned with a board barely wide enough for her to sit upon.
Swallowing hard, she climbed into the contraption. Dangling from the web of
rigging above, they lowered her to the skiff. Anne shut her eyes and swallowed
her urge to scream. Didn’t they know she couldn’t swim? Where was the pier?

Anne
was sure the small boat would capsize as John Urquhart, Bran and Calum followed
her, making use of the same harness as if they were swinging from a grand oak
tree with lush grass beneath. When Calum took the seat beside her, Anne
fastened both hands around his arm. When faced with an icy death in the Sound
of Raasay, or clinging to a pirate, she threw her misgivings aside and opted
for life.

His
muscle flexed beneath her grasp. Surely he was hewn from iron. “Yer no’ a
seafaring lass are ye?”

“I
cannot swim, and even if I could, these skirts would drown me. Why have you no
pier?”

“I’ll
have to add that to the agenda for discussion at the next clan meeting. It can
follow healing the sick and feeding the children.”

Anne
detected a note of sarcasm in his voice, but nothing could have prepared her
for the scene on the beach. Yes, she had seen poor people on the streets of
Portsmouth and Southampton. She had even opened her kitchens to the local
crofters at Titchfield House. None of her tenants starved. She had seen to it.

Though
there was laughing and dancing, the children were dirty and gaunt as if they
hadn’t a decent meal all winter. Their clothing was tattered—hardly warm enough
for the cold north. Anne wondered how they could be so happy. They seemed to be
teetering on the brink of death.

As
they marched up the beach, an old man with a woolen blanket pulled about his
shoulders coughed. Anne leaned in to study the pink rims around his eyes. He
smiled, revealing a single tooth in the front of his mouth, and said something
in Gaelic—spoken so fast, Anne couldn’t make it out. Pleased with himself, he
threw back his head and laughed, bringing on a fit of raucous coughing.

“What
did he say?” Anne asked.

She
could have sworn Calum turned red right up to the tip of his ears. “He’s just a
silly old man.”

Anne
noticed the others lining the shore were laughing too. “Well, whatever it was,
they certainly thought it terribly funny.”

Bran
leaned toward her. “He asked Calum if he captured himself a wife.”

Anne
covered her mouth to hide her astonishment and hurried ahead. These people
couldn’t possibly think the captain had a romantic interest in her. Heaven’s
stars, she was a married woman. At a split in the path, she took the right.

Calum
cleared his throat behind her. “This way, milady.”

Anne
glanced over her shoulder to see who had noticed. Everyone. With quick step,
she fell in line behind Calum, climbing a zigzag path up to the castle. The
monstrous gates to the outer bailey were opened wide, welcoming them. Inside
the castle grounds, people lined the path to the tower, shouting friendly
cheers, reaching their hands out to touch Calum. Fingers strayed to Anne and
brushed her velvet cloak. She gasped when tiny palms found their way to her
waist. A toothy smile of a small girl gazed up, her eyes wide with wonder.

Without
a second thought, Anne picked her up. “What is your name?”

“Isabelle.”
She stuck a finger in her mouth. “Are ye a princess?”

Anne
whistled. “No. I’m merely a lady lost at sea.”

Anne
kissed Isabelle on the cheek and returned her to the outstretched arms of a
woman who must have been her mother.

Calum
pushed through heavy oak doors into the great hall. A young woman with her hair
tucked under a linen coif scurried into Calum’s outstretched arms “
Fàilte mo laird
—greetings my laird.”

Anne
understood that.

“Ye
must use your English, Mara.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “This is our
guest, Lady Anne from, ah, Southampton. Take her to the guest room.”

Mara
pushed a stray lock of auburn hair under her white linen coif. “The guest
room?”

He
winked. “Aye—ye ken—where the Chief of Lewis stays when he pays a visit.”

Understanding
lit up her face. “Of course.” Mara looped her arm through Anne’s—an
inordinately familiar gesture for a serving maid. “Come with me, milady. We’ll make
ye right comfortable.”

Anne
let Mara pull her up the winding stone staircase. A few inches shorter than
Anne, Mara’s acorn eyes filled with excitement. “Ye must tell me what happened,
milady. The whole castle was agog with news of your arrival afore ye made it up
the hill.”

“I’m
afraid I was a bit of unexpected cargo on the
Flying Swan
.”

“Oh
me heavens.”

“Well,
at least the captain didn’t see fit to toss me overboard.”

“Calum?
He would never do that.” Mara brushed the idea away with a flick of her hand. “And
how long do ye think ye might be staying?”

“Until
the ransom can be arranged with my husband.”

“So
you’re married, then?”

“Yes.
Somewhat.”

“How
can anyone be ‘somewhat’ married?”

“I
suppose I’m legally married—on paper, anyway.” Anne bit her bottom lip.

Mara
stopped and gaped. “That makes no sense at all.”

Anne
shouldn’t have spoken so freely with the maid. They’d barely met. But she asked
so many questions, and her face looked as friendly as a kitten’s, reminding her
of Hanna.

Mara
opened a door into a spacious chamber with a huge, but tattered mahogany bed
with torn red canopy drapes. She gestured to a large stone hearth. “I stoked
the fire when word came the ship rounded Skye.”

“You
did? I thought this was the guest room.”

Wide
eyed, Mara covered her mouth with both hands. “Apologies. I’m very bad with
secrets.”

“This
is
his
chamber, is it not?”

She
cast her eyes downward. “Aye, milady.”

“Where
does Calum sleep when the Chief of Lewis visits?”

“He
takes one of the smaller chambers above. ’Tis no trouble—Please don’t tell him
I told ye, he’d be awful sore with me.”

“And
where is the laird’s wife? Am I also imposing on
her
hospitality?”

“Calum
has no wife.”

Anne
turned to examine a tapestry, afraid Mara might be able to sense her thundering
heartbeat. Studying the exquisite needlework of the family crest with a sun
encircled by a leather belt, Anne could not fathom why her insides flipped
upside down at the news. But the fact Calum was unwed was most interesting
indeed. She ran her finger around the circle which bore the Latin words,
Luceo Non Uro
. “I shine not burn.”

“Pardon?”
Mara asked, turning down the bedclothes.

Composure
regained, Anne stepped to the other side of the bed to help—something she did
with Hanna, though her mother never knew. “Is the laird promised?” She feigned
her most blasé expression and fluffed the pillows while watching Mara out of
the corner of her eye.

“Nay.
He’s been too busy trying to keep us fed. The cargo of the
Flying Swan
will be put to good use indeed.” She giggled. “When we
saw ye clutching his arm in the skiff, we all thought ye were
the
one.”

The one? Heaven preserve me.

Mara
walked to the door. “Is there anything else ye’ll be needing milady?”

“Just
my things. I suspect the men will bring them in due course.”

“Very
well. The dinner bell rings at dusk.”

***

Calum
couldn’t draw his eyes away from the graceful sway of Anne’s bottom as she ascended
the stairs with Mara. When she’d clutched his arm in the skiff, he sensed a
slight crack in her stately façade. He hadn’t expected his body’s response when
she placed her hands upon him. He was certain she could hear his heart
thundering against his ribcage. Blast it all, Calum should have asked her to
sit beside Bran or anyone else.

He
turned to his fair-haired younger brother, Norman, who held the keep during
Calum’s absences. A few inches shorter, Norman closed his gaping mouth, shook
his head and looked toward the ceiling. “Ye only have to look at her to ken
she’s nobility. Ye want the entire English navy to come blow us to hell?”

Calum
hated the way his younger brother jumped to conclusions. “’Tis good to see ye
too, Norman.” He led him and John aside. “We had no choice in the matter. The
skiffs were launched before we found her.”

“What
do ye aim to do with the lass?”

“Ransom
her to her husband.”

“What?
Is he the Duke of Norfolk or something?”

“Thomas
Wharton—the Baron of Wharton after his attack on Scotland at Solway Moss.”

Norman
blanched. “Christ, Calum. Wharton? Do ye ken what he’ll do if he discovers it’s
us who’ve absconded with his wife?”

“Aye—no
more than if the English learn it’s us who’ve plundered their ship.” Calum’s
fists moved to his hips. “How much do ye think we should ask for her?”

John
leaned in and kept his voice low. “Too much and he’ll hunt us down for sure. Too
little and he’ll no’ take us seriously.”

“A
thousand pounds.” Calum looked between the two men. Both frowned but neither
objected. “A thousand pounds it is. I’ll write the note. John ye’ll leave on
the morrow. In Urquhart plaid, no one south of Inverness will tie ye with the
MacLeods.”

John
nodded. A pang of guilt crept up Calum’s nape. He knew John wanted to tarry
longer with his new wife, but love would have to wait. Cousin and loyal friend,
John would swim the frigid Sound of Raasay and back if Calum asked. As an
Urquhart, he was the best man for the job—and they all just might return Lady
Anne to her life without getting their necks stretched on English gallows.

Friar
Patrick MacSween pushed his way into the hall, the hemp rope wrapped around his
portly waist swinging against his brown robe. “Praise the good Lord ye’ve
returned in one piece.”

Calum
smiled at the healer not only of souls, but the friar had a good knowledge of
herbs as well. “I couldn’t very well leave ye alone to twist the minds of me kinsfolk.”

“Ye
heathen lad.” The big man pulled Calum into a welcoming bear hug. “And how are
things with the English?”

“They’re
down one ship and its cargo.” Calum nodded toward John and Norman. “We’ll have
to start refitting the
Flying Swan
as
soon as she’s offloaded—cannot take a chance on having it spotted by English
spies.”