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

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Aileen,

I write to remind ye of our pact. If ye value yer faither’s life, I trust ye will remember yer duty tae me. I wish ye tae bring me that upstart rogue Everard MacNeil, whose presence affords me great inconvenience and substantial sums of money. He would thwart the sweet business of piracy in which both ye and I are engaged. Dinnae delay. Bring him tae me so that I may deal with him as he deserves.

I send me regards.

The Laird Andrew Sutherland.

A ileen took a deep breath to steady her racing heartbeat as she glided silently across the deck. Behind her she could hear the man making his way up the rope ladder, cursing as he went. She smiled to herself.

Landlubber.

She didn’t look back. She had bewitched him, and no doubt her coquette’s talk and the promise of bed would be enough to ensure he’d follow her.

For the briefest of seconds, she allowed the possibility that it was he who might have enchanted her, with his warrior’s chivalry, deep skill, and great strength. To say naught of the piercing blue of his eyes, the raven-dark hair that fell to his shoulders, the face carved from stone like some statue of antiquity – barbaric yet beautiful – and the images she’d glimpsed inked on his neck and shoulders. An eagle’s wing, a Celtic symbol, crossed blades.

It was too bad she’d been ordered to deliver Everard MacNeil to her nemesis Andrew Sutherland. No doubt the sadistic man would soon tire of torture and Everard would be summarily executed. But fulfilling Sutherland’s demands would keep her father alive. For now, at least.

She paused briefly at the entrance to the small cabin – hardly more than a rough-built shelter in the ship’s stern – giving the lad enough time to be by her side as she took a step up into the candle-lit room. The tiny space had room for only a simple table and chairs. Resting on the table was a thick, black, ebony rod.

Casting a glance around, her companion gave a snort of laughter “Why, there’s nay bed here at all, lass.” Before she could respond he had seized her in his arms. “‘Tis of nay moment. I’ll have ye on the table, or the floor. I dinnae care. But I’ll have ye…”

She felt his manhood, hard and long, pressing against her thigh and her blood rose in response. He claimed her mouth in a continuance of the desperate passion they’d shared after their bout. For only a moment she allowed herself to succumb to desire and return the fire of his kiss.

This surge of heat coursing through her at his touch bore no resemblance to the ice in her blood when Sutherland laid his hands on her. This was compelling, demanding. She wanted his touch rather than being repelled, as she was by the man who owned her. Surely, it could do no harm to revel in the rapture of their kiss for a few seconds more?

In danger of losing herself in his arms, she steeled herself to bring a cold reserve to the present. She reminded herself how she despised arrogant men such as this, who patronized her, failing to respect her power and her own warrior’s skill. Their confidence of their power as certain as the rise and fall of the tides. She’d taught him a lesson and now she would follow her orders. There could be no respite, no dallying with pleasure and desire.

As their kiss deepened, Maxwell’s hands slid down her back, pressing her to him. She shifted, her hand, reaching slowly behind her for the ebony rod on the table. Her fingers curled around it, grasping it tight. She paused. He seemed to have no inkling of her movement, or what was to come.

With a swift move she brought up her hand clutching the heavy rod and slammed it onto the man’s head. There was a faint crunching sound as the ebony hit home, his head flew back and he uttered a harsh cry. His hands fell away from her and he crumpled to the floor at her feet.

In a flash she was kneeling beside him feeling for his pulse, his heartbeat. His heart was reacting to the blow, its rhythm a trifle unsteady. But its beat was strong and she had no doubt he would suffer little more than a ferocious ache when he regained his senses. A trickle of blood issued from the back of his head where she’d struck him and, for half a jolt of time, she felt what might have been a pang of remorse. But this was quickly displaced by the satisfaction of having accomplished what she’d set out to do.

Her mission to capture Everard MacNeil had gone even more smoothly than she could have hoped. Except for her loss of composure at the inn and her reckless challenge to the impertinent sod, her plan had worked seamlessly.

She was getting to her feet when two others, a lass and a sturdy lad, slipped into the cabin. Smiling broadly the lass hastened to her side. “Ye’ve done it. Now we have our prisoner. Well done, Captain. Everard MacNeil is an important chief and ye’re nae the only one who would make a prisoner of such a man.” Her voice softened. “Yer faither would be proud of ye.”

Aileen brushed her skirt down, still somewhat dazed by the speed and ease of her victory.

“I appreciate yer words, me dear Finn, and I thank ye fer being by me side as ye have been since me braither’s murder. I could ask fer nay more trustworthy a pair than ye and yon Séamus.”

Finn turned to Séamus and gave him a wink. “Even if dear Sea is an Irishman.”

This brought an amused grunt from Séamus, who was already on the floor beside Everard, shackling his ankles and arms with stout chains.

“He might try. But he’ll have the devil’s job escaping these chains.” He unlaced Everard’s cloak and handed it to Finn. “Here, this is a fine piece of wool plaid tae keep ye warm through this icy winter.”

He unfastened the pouch Everard wore at his waist and placed it in Finn’s waiting hand. Then he pulled Everard’s sword from its scabbard and took the dirk from his belt. “He’ll have nay need of his weapons.”

While Everard slumbered, his three captors seated themselves at the table.

Séamus took out a flagon from the locker, poured three pots of whisky and passed them around.

“Slàinte Mhath.” He raised his tankard. “Here’s to our continued good health.”

Finn glanced uneasily at their prisoner. He lay prone, his arms and ankles held fast. She gave a slight shiver. “I’m nae so certain about this one. He looks a lot like trouble to me.”

Séamus shook his head. “Dinna fash lassie. He’s nae match fer us.” He dismissed the possibility without a second thought and turned his glance up to Aileen.

“What now, Captain? Dae we forge ahead to Castle Dunrobin tae deliver the prisoner to Sutherland? Or dae we deal with those slave traders we hold below, bound and tied beside the sleeping oarsmen? Should we rid ourselves of the scum before we continue in the morning?

Aileen sipped the whisky as she pondered Séamus’s question. They’d captured the three men when they’d overtaken a larger cog carrying furs and grain from the east.

The ship was also carrying slaves. Fair-skinned women from beyond the Caucus Mountains, bound for the Ottoman harems in the city of Edirne. They had freed the slaves, who had been grateful for their sudden unexpected luck, but now Aileen had to decide the fate of their loathsome slave traders.

She considered this. They’d taken the traders’ cog and all its bounty and her men had sailed it back to Dunrobin. Now the fate of the three captives rested with her. She felt nothing for them. As far as she was concerned the slavers were beneath contempt, their cruel trade condemning innocents to a life of unspeakable hardship.

“I ken ye hate the way these men sully the innocent, nae caring a fig for the pain and suffering they cause, all in the name of money and greed.”

Aileen snapped her fingers. Finn was right. These men had no right to live. If they were released, they would find their way back and resume their evil trade. Although there were many to step into their shoes, she had the chance to rid the world of a tiny part of its wickedness.

She shook her head, an icy calm descending over her.

“Once we’re at sea, we’ll toss them over the side.” In the chill waters of the North Sea there was little chance of survival beyond a few minutes. “Theirs would be my fate should our situations be reversed. I’m under nay illusion.”

Séamus cast a sideways glance at Finn who was regarding Aileen with a concerned frown.

“’Tis nay true, Aileen. Ye’ve a heart as big as...” He spread his arms to indicate distance.

Aileen grunted. “But nae big enough to spare the cruel and the wicked.”

“Aye. As ye say. It shall be done.”

There was nothing further to be said and Finn exhaled. The moment was over. “And then?”

Aileen gestured at their captive’s slumped form. “Then we deliver our prize to Sutherland. I daresay he’ll have a smidgen of gratitude for a job well done.”

Picking up Everard’s pouch from the table, Séamus loosened the tie. A small number of coins dropped out and he scooped them up. Then he extracted a folded piece of parchment.

“Is that a letter?” Aileen said. “Pass it tae me.”

Séamus, who found reading and writing to be unnecessarily difficult and had never really bothered to learn, passed the folded piece to Aileen. She smoothed it on the table and studied the hand-written note.

As she read, she sucked in a startled breath.

Finn shot her a wary look. “Is something wrong?”

Aileen let fly a string of curses. “God’s blood!” She slammed a fist on the table. “By all the devils in hell. We’ve got ourselves the wrong man. This isnae Everard MacNeil, but his braither, Maxwell. War Chief of Clan MacNeil.”

She ground her teeth. No wonder this man had had such an easy victory over her when they had sparred. His name was known far and wide. He was a great warrior, a leader, and a man who was feared throughout the Highlands and beyond. And every one of those inked images she’d glimpsed – that no doubt covered his entire body – represented a foe he had killed in battle.

Grabbing handfuls of her hair with both hands she rocked back in her chair, her mind reeling with the potential consequences of such a grave error.

It was Finn who put into words the thoughts that were rioting in Aileen’s head. “Oh, me God. The Laird Sutherland will be on fire when he discovers this.” She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “His punishment fer this error will be harsh.”

Séamus leaped to his feet, his hand already on his dirk.

“I can end the MacNeil now, Captain, if ye wish it. There’s none will ken. We can still capture his braither.”

His words hung in the air while Aileen wrestled with the impossible dilemma she found herself in.

It was in that moment an ear-splitting sound, somewhere between a groan and a roar, drew her attention to Maxwell’s prone figure.

His eyes shot open and he grimaced as he faced her. “Jesus Christ and all the saints in heaven, lass.” He struggled into a sitting position, his eyes darting from Aileen to Finn and then to Séamus. “Did ye have to hit me so damned hard?”

Her eyes roamed over the humbled but still defiant figure, observing the contours of his broad shoulders, his burly chest, and the strong arms now held fast in shackles.

She met his ice-blue gaze, sensing his rage simmering fit to boil. A shiver ran through her, at once heating and freezing her blood. For all his helplessness, Maxwell MacNeil remained a powerful man.

At that she made up her mind.

“Nay Séamus, we will spare him. Mayhap he will prove tae be of some use tae us, after all.”

Finn drew in a sharp breath. “Captain, is that wise? This will send a message to the MacNeil whereas before this he had nay sense of danger from us.”

Aileen allowed herself a moment to mull over Finn’s warning.

“Nay, Finn.” She shook her head. “’Tis too late tae undae what’s done. Sooner or later, Everard MacNeil will come after us. When he does, we’ll be ready.”

She turned to Maxwell. “Ye’re the prisoner of Pirate Captain Aileen MacAlpin.” She grinned. “Ye’re mine now, me fine big lad, and I’ll dae with ye as I wish.”

Maxwell’s eyes were riveted on her face, studying her with an intensity that made her quiver under his gaze and look away momentarily.

He laughed. A bold, brazen sound of ridicule that rang through the cabin. How dare he laugh at me when he is me prisoner. She half-raised a hand, wishing to slap away his mirth and the merriment written on his handsome face.