The Highlander’s Pirate Bride (Sparks and Tartans #10)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

N ovember 1309

Ullapool, Scotland, near the shores of Loch Broom

Maxwell MacNeil rubbed his calloused hands together, savoring the warmth emanating from the fire blazing merrily in the smoky tavern’s hearth. Outside, the icy wind howled with the ferocity of a wolf pack, causing him to clutch his cloak a little tighter. He reached for the tankard of ale on the table in front of him and took a hearty gulp, his first sup of ale in months.

There was satisfaction in knowing his older brother, Laird Everard, would be well pleased when Maxwell relayed the success of their mission. He and his men would be homeward bound tomorrow and if Lady Luck was with them, in two days’ time they’d be dining in Barra Castle, basking in Everard’s gratitude and well rewarded for their troubles. There’d be rowdy shouts of approval from the clansmen, and fair-eyed lasses eyeing them with lust in their gaze. The ale would flow and the tales of battle would ring out through the castle’s great hall. Maxwell’s lips curled in a half smile as he turned to his cousin James Anderson, who was seated by his side.

“Aye lad. We’ll both sleep in the bedroom up the stairs. The good landlord has given us his room fer the night and found stalls for the men at the back of the stables.” He offered a grin. “I daresay they’re raising the roof with their snores by now.”

James chuckled, raising his pewter in salute. “ Slàinte Mhath , lad. Tae yer good health. Ye’ve brought them all safe through the midst of battle and we have much to thank ye for. Ye’re a fine warrior and a good leader, Maxwell.”

Maxwell turned his gaze back to the fire. Such praise for simply doing his duty to his laird did not sit comfortably on his broad shoulders, yet it warmed his soul to ken he had the respect of his men. He finished his tankard and signaled to the tavern-keeper to bring him another.

Out of habit that his eyes made a sweep of the room. After all, who kent whether an enemy might be sitting too close for comfort? But there were few souls still at large and, save for one table in the corner, where a pair of men with grey hair were comfortably seated, chatting, and a noisy table of younger men who, in their worn britches and rough leather tunics, had the appearance of farmhands, there was only one other occupant.

A woman. Alone.

At once his attention was ensnared by the solo figure. She was seated at a small table near the doorway and, for all the world, was as calm as a summer’s day, quietly supping on a tankard. She suddenly turned her head and their eyes met. Perhaps she felt his eyes on her, or perhaps she had been drawn to him as he had been to her. Something shivered through him as he felt himself consumed by her green cat’s-gaze, her full lips parted in a teasing smile. He returned her smile and nodded.

If it was a challenge she was after, he was up for it. He’d had nay lassie warming his bed since they’d departed Barra all those months ago and he was more than ready to break the drought this night. His groin twitched pleasurably as he contemplated the prospect of bedding the lass.

She’d a glorious mane of red hair, liberally streaked with rose-gold, that flowed free over her shoulders, half-covering the hood of her fur cloak. His curiosity was piqued. He wanted her to rise to her feet so he could glimpse what the rest of her was like, although he was rather certain she was slim and sleek.

It was then he took heed of the gloves she wore that extended beyond her elbows. She toyed with the fabric, smoothing the green velvet along her arms, making him think of the velvet of her warm, bare skin as he ran his hands over it while she lay moaning with pleasure beneath him. There was that twitch again, stronger now.

Maxwell took his time to study the woman. She wasnae young, mayhap similar in age to himself – and he was fast approaching thirty. The softness of youth had fled and her face was clear- shaped, fine-boned, with a straight nose, dark brows and wide green eyes. Her cheeks were berry-brown, which spoke of time spent outdoors. But she’d nae the weathered look of a farm girl. Her smooth skin shone in the firelight, and he was taken by her elegant beauty.

James looked over, raising a dark brow as he caught the drift of Maxwell’s attention. “Aye lad. she’s a beauty. ‘Tis time ye enjoyed a little dalliance with a lively lass. Ye’ve thought of naught but battles long enough.” He cast Maxwell a mischievous grin. “And ye, big oaf that ye are, wi’ yer broad chest and yer ink markings covering every inch of ye, are just the very sort of lad the lassies go crazy for.”

This last was greeted with a grunt from Maxwell. “’Tis true, I’ve nae had room in me head fer any thoughts other than doing Everard’s work.” He glanced at the woman again. She had, by now, turned back to the fire. “But somehow this lass doesnae strike me as the kind who’d go crazy fer any man.”

James seized his tankard and swilled the last of his ale. “Well, there’s but one way tae find out, and that’s tae take yerself over to where she sits and bid her hello.” He rose to his feet. “I bid ye goodnight and good luck.” James gave a brief salute, turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Maxwell groaned. James was right, of course. It was not like him to be in the least reluctant to approach a lass in a tavern, haughty and elegant looks notwithstanding. Yet there was something about this woman that signaled she was different to any other woman he’d known. He gave his head a slight shake, dismissing his doubts. With the challenge of her smile uppermost in his thoughts, he placed his tankard on the table and stood, intending to see what possibilities the night – and the lass – had in store.

At that moment one of the young men who’d been drinking with his friends staggered to his feet and, obviously spurred on by the same thoughts as Maxwell’s, made his unsteady way toward the seated woman.

In three strides Maxwell reached her, just as the lad raised a burly arm and seized her by the shoulder. She went to twist away, but he held fast.

“Take yer hand off me.” Her voice rose in indignation at this unwanted intrusion.

“Ye heard the lady.” Maxwell gritted his teeth, his big hands curling into fists. He was used to dealing with battle-hardened warriors and this lad was a mere pup whose neck he could snap in a trice. “If ye value yer good health, I’d let her be.” His voice was quiet but well-oiled with menace.

The inebriated lad looked up into Maxwell’s gaze, his eyes suddenly fearful. The hand that had been gripping the woman’s shoulder abruptly dropped to his side. “Sorry milord, milady.” He gave a loud belch, turned and stepped back, before shuffling across to his friends.

Maxwell turned to the lass, a smile curving his lips as he anticipated her grateful response to his chivalry. But instead of a warm smile of thanks, her pretty lips turned down and he was met with a scowl.

“If ye’re expecting me to simper and thank ye for saving me from a discourteous yokel, ye’re much mistaken. I’m able to manage these foolish affronts without the assistance of a man.”

He took a step back, his eyebrows shooting up. “I beg yer pardon, lass.” He shook his head, “I intended nay dishonor to ye. I was merely offering me help before the situation took an ugly turn.”

She shrugged. “As I said, I can manage without yer so-called help.”

A rush of wickedness overtook Maxwell. So, she thinks she is too good fer me help daes she? He turned and snapped his fingers in the obnoxious lad’s direction.

“Here lad.” The churl’s head snapped up, a wary expression on his face. “I bid ye come back tae the lady. She wishes tae deal wi’ ye herself.”

She huffed loudly and cast Maxwell a snarl. “Ye’re too clever fer yer own good.”

He slanted her a sly grin. “So, after all, mayhap ye dinnae wish yer swain to return and ply ye wi’ his favors.”

“Mayhap I dinnae.”

“Nay lad.” He called, inclining his head in the woman’s direction. “The wee lass is nay interested in yer favors after all.” He chuckled. “Methinks, she prefers me company tae yers.”

She snorted, her green eyes flashing fire. “Prefer yer company? Think again fellow. I dinnae wish fer company at all.” Raising a defiant chin, she turned away from Maxwell and raised her tankard to her lips.

Unable to resist, Maxwell pulled another chair to the table and sat, signaling to the landlord to bring him another tankard.

“Ye’ll forbid me from taking a draught of ale wi’ ye then? Fer courtesy’s sake?”

She turned her gaze on him and something twinkled there, that, to Maxwell’s mind, could have been mischief. “I’d nae be discourteous to a stranger. Ye may take yer drink beside me if ye wish. But first…”

He lifted his head, his interest sparking. “First…?” he echoed.

“First I wish tae show ye how little I care fer yer pretense at chivalry. I challenge ye tae a match of skill, tae test ye against me and fer ye tae see how I am able tae better ye. ‘Tis time ye learned a lesson or two yerself.”

Maxwell rocked back on his chair.

What foolishness is this? The lass is challenging me tae physical combat!

His glance took in her form as she glowered at him. She was, as he’d imagined, slim and slight – although there were curves enough to please a lad. There was no way a lass such as this could begin to be a match for his warrior’s tempered skills.

“Well?”

He laughed. “I cannae wrestle wi’ a lass like yerself. ‘Tis nae fair tae ye.” He looked her up and down. “Why, I’m twice yer size, I would break ye like a wee twig if ye wrestled wi’ me.”

“Is that a refusal tae take on me challenge?” She pinned him with the intensity of her gaze.

He slowly shook his head. The only match with the lass that interested him was the one he envisaged taking place in a soft bed, where they both shed their clothes and lay naked. Then she could wrestle with him all she liked, rolling atop his broad nakedness, pressing her bountiful breasts to his chest?—

“Why, nay.” He grinned at her.

If this is what she demands, she is welcome tae a defeat at me hands.

“Never let it be said I am a coward who refuses a challenge thrown at me. I’ll pit me strength against yers whenever ye wish.”

At that, she jumped to her feet, spilling a drop of her ale on the table. “Right. Ye’ve agreed and we shall fight.”

As he stood, Maxwell became aware that a hush had fallen over the tavern’s patrons and all eyes had suddenly turned on himself and the fiery-haired lass.

Across the room one of the old men raised a fist. “Ay! Let’s see a lass take down a big warrior.” He licked his lips, lending a salacious hint to his words.

The woman led the way through the tavern door to the cobbled yard outside. She turned to Maxwell, who followed close behind her, his mind whirling at the absurdity of the situation he found himself in.

“Here is a good space fer our bout.”

The two old men followed them out and a small crowd gathered. The rowdy lads appeared, solemn-faced now. The tavern-keeper stepped up to Maxwell.

“Milord, hand me yer weapons and yer cloak. Ye’ll nae be needing them.”

As he divested himself of his sword and dirk and handed the man his heavy, woolen cloak, he noted a young maid doing the same for the lass who was to be his opponent.

He stepped forward and the crowd grew silent. “I’ll nae partake of punches, kicks, or slaps. It wouldnae be seemly fer me tae raise a hand against a woman.”

There was a rumble of approval from the growing crowd and the woman shrugged. “I’ll nae abide by yer rules.”

Maxwell gave a short laugh. “As ye wish, milady. Me rules are fer meself. If ye are able tae land a blow, then good luck tae ye.”

The tavern keeper held up his hand. “At the count of ten, let the bout between ye begin.” He began counting and as he reached the word ‘ten’ the lass sprang toward Maxwell.

He swung his body to the side and, missing her mark, she darted past him, her jaw set in a determined line. Then, with a speed that surprised him, she swiveled and came at him again. Her booted foot was angled between his knees, catching him off balance, causing him to stumble. He raised an arm to parry a blow from her and caught it on his elbow with a grunt of pain. Before he could turn, she had twisted away from him and was crouching, her fists high, her eyes holding his.

It was then he realized the seriousness of the situation. This audacious lass was quick and fearless and intended to defeat him with both guile and strength.

“Oof.”

In the scant second it took him to gather his wits, she had darted forward and landed a blow to his solar plexus, almost winding him.

He straightened, growling and hauling in a breath. She was clearly enjoying this, her green eyes flashing with a warrior’s light. By the saints , this hell-cat was trained, as he was, and her skill was a good match for his.

If he was to spare himself the humiliation of being defeated by a mere lass, it was time he shed his chivalry and took charge. There was no denying she was skillful, but she lacked his strength and the battle-hardened ruthlessness no foe could withstand.

It was over in seconds. As she came at him again, he dodged and seized her arm, twisting it hard behind her. She moaned in pain but he tightened his grip and pushed her captive arm higher, bringing her to her knees. Bit by grinding bit, he forced her resistance to submit to his strength. Finally, in a lightning move, he had her face down on the ice-cold stones, his knee on her back, holding her there as the tavern-keeper counted to three.

Panting, Maxwell released her. “Ye fought well, lass.”

She rolled onto her back, supporting herself on one elbow. As she did so, the skirt she’d hoisted up to give herself more traction fell aside, displaying a long shapely leg and a charming glimpse of a bare thigh. Maxwell’s heart leaped at the arousing sight, but he averted his eyes, respecting her modesty, reaching a hand to assist her to her feet. As she rose, he folded her into his arms. For a long moment her body was pressed to his. Her warmth and the softness of her breasts rising and falling against his chest caused his wayward manhood to harden beneath his kilt.

He held her for a heartbeat too long, savoring the wildflower scent of her hair, the heat of her body and the indescribable, heady aroma that was her, musky and female.

Blood pounded in his temples as he held her, oblivious to the shouts of the gathered crowd. They were both panting from their exertions, their gasping breaths mingling in the icy air. Then the lass raised her head, her green eyes locked with his, and a wild spark of something hot, as sharp as a piercing blade, rushed between them, robbing what little of his breath remained.

She reached out, snaked an arm around his neck and leaned up. He dipped his head in answer to her unspoken demand and, without hesitating, her mouth took his in a kiss.

There was no restraint. The tension that had built between them in the tavern and during their physical bout, overflowed into a melding of pleasure and desire that rocked Maxwell to his core. This was a meeting of lips and tongues in fiery passion. He was oblivious to his surroundings, unaware of the jeers of the onlooking crowd, lost as he was in the wonder of her lips and the soaring, aching need to consume this wild creature, whose wiles held him captive. He tightened his embrace, pressing his hands to her well-rounded buttocks so that she rode against his hardness. He savored her answering pressure as she shifted her hips to accommodate him.

Then, all too soon, it was over.

He groaned, chest heaving in frustration, as she raised her head. Her eyes were shining dark in the lamplight as she calmly appraised him.

Damn. He could think of naught but bedding the lass but the room he shared with James was not the place to wreak his pent-up passion.

She moved out of his embrace and he groaned again. “Lass…” he began, “I’ve a sore need… fer a bed…” Pressing a finger to his lips she shook her head.

“I’ve a preference fer my own bed. Its feathers are soft and the covers are warm. Would ye care to join me there? Ye’d find it much superior to the hard straw mattress of the tavern.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I cannae resist such a fine offer. There is aught else I desire than tae while away the hours until daylight in yer company.”

She flicked her long, unbound hair over her shoulder and straightened her skirt. Then she reached for the fur cloak being proffered by the maid. “D’ye care tae follow me?”

Maxwell shrugged on his own cloak and hastily fastened his sword and dirk in his belt. He made a courtly bow. “Milady, it would be me pleasure.”

Without another word, the woman turned on her heel and stepped into the darkness beyond the tavern.

Heart pounding, Maxwell followed. It crossed his mind that he should let James know he was venturing into the village to continue his dalliance with the lass. But surely, he would approve. As the mysterious woman’s footsteps grew fainter along the path, he threw caution to the wind and took off, quickly catching up with her as she strode purposefully through the village.

She led him along one winding laneway and turned into yet another equally tortuous path. As he followed, his footsteps keeping time with the hers, he looked around, frowning. He had no idea where he was. One or two windows showed flickering candle light, but there was little to distinguish one lane from another. While the moon lit their way with a silvery glimmer, finding his way back to the tavern come morning would prove a challenge.

A little further along, they turned a corner and, after a few more steps, emerged from the tangle of village streets onto a broad stone jetty where a birlinn , in full sail, rode at anchor.

Maxwell paused, expecting the lass to complain they’d taken a wrong turn. Instead, she strode toward the vessel.

He followed her to the foot of a rope ladder descending from the deck, where a lamp hung, casting a dim light over the hull. She placed a foot in the ladder and grasped the rope.

“Come.” She beckoned him to follow.

“Wait, lass.” As she swayed on the rope in the dim light, her cloak floating around her, she could have been a wraith or a pixie or some other supernatural creature. Was she real?

“I didnae ken ye’d bring me to a ship.” Tales of sailors lured to their doom or men captured from villages such as this and forced to row endlessly in pirate galleys sprang into his head. “I’ll wager there’s nay feather bed on board this wee boat.”

“Why, me brave warrior, are ye afraid of the sea?”

“Me concern is nae wi’ the sea lassie. ‘Tis wi’ ye. Are ye a siren intent on luring unsuspecting sailors tae a salty death?”

She gave a tinkling laugh. “Ye’ve naught tae fear. Ye’re nae a sailor and the sirens are nay danger tae a landlocked warrior.” She pshawed. “And as fer the feather bed. When we’re alone, I wager ye’ll nae care a jot whether the bed ye’re lying on is made of feather, horsehair or stones.”

With a grunt of laughter, he reached a hand for the ladder as she stepped higher.

“Aye. Ye’re right, pretty lass, I’ll care naught fer a feather bed when I have me hands on ye and ye’re writhing in me arms, squealing and crying out in yer ecstasy, begging me never tae stop.”