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

Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

A ileen took the oar, even though the breeze in the sail was carrying them along at a good rate. She gazed into the sky. “We’re on a south-west position?”

“Aye. If me skills still serve me, we’ll be soon along the southern coast of Barra.” He reached over and touched her hand lightly. “I wished ye awake to catch the first glimpse of the island that will be yer home. Fer now, that is,” he added hastily.

She looked over at him, his eyes searching the sea, his jawline set. “Are ye thinking I’ll nae wish tae stay?”

He shook his head slowly. “I dinnae ken how ye’ll like it. Mayhap ye’ll tire of it. The castle is nay the magnificent place ye’re used to. Dunrobin is three times the size. And the island is small. Ye’ll soon ken every islander by sight if nae by name.”

He gave a shrug that appeared so careless the words were on the tip of her tongue to ask if he cared whether she would to stay or nay. But this was not the time for such talk, it was time to find their way to safety. She swiveled, her eyes seeking for anything that might betray the presence of their pursuers. She froze, listening. There was nothing but a grunt from Maxwell, the creaking of the boat’s timbers, the sound of the waves lapping on the hull and the wind in the sails

She took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “There’s nay sign of Sutherland’s men as far as I can tell.” But who knows what might be lurking behind us out of sight?

Shivering she pulled her cloak tighter, put her head down, and plied her oar in time with Maxwell’s.

Dawn was patching the sky when they finally came in sight of land. The gulls careened overhead as if forming a welcome committee.

Maxwell rested his oar, drawing in a long deep breath. “There.” He pointed to the distant shape, a mountain wreathed in mist, a few lights twinkling from cottages along the shore.

They sailed on, up the coast, soon nearing the shore.

“Keep yer eyes alert, lass. If Sutherland figures we’ll be making for Barra, my guess is he’ll have issued instructions for men to wait at the entrance to the bay to ensnare us and take us captive before we reach the sanctuary of the bay.”

Aileen groaned quietly. It would suit Sutherland to let them get so close and then close his trap. “He loves to play cat and mouse. That would suit the evil devil down to the ground. Capturing us when we’re so close, kenning we are weaker after so long on the run from his men.”

Maxwell nodded, keeping his eyes on the hill and the lights along the coast. “He’ll nay take me alive this time, Aileen. Without yer wiles to draw me in he’d never have taken me while there was breath in me body.”

“Oh? Are ye telling me that ye simply came along on the birlinn because of me? I thought it was yer anger that was driving ye on.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Ye had already captured me in the tavern at Ullapool. Did ye but ken it then? Och, I was angry. Ye made me fierce enough to throw ye overboard. All the same I didnae want to leave ye.” He looked into her eyes and smiled. “Ye’re naught but a witch who used yer spells tae enchant me.”

She laughed. “Aye, Maxwell. Mayhap the same spells ye wove around me.”

He squeezed her hand and lifted it to her lips. “May ye never break yer spell on me.”

She was about to say much the same soft words in reply but as she glanced sideways in his direction, she caught a hint of movement. She gave a sudden squeal of horror. Emerging from the mist behind them was the dark shape of a large birlinn.

“Maxwell!” She seized her oar. “They’re here. After us.”

He whipped around and turned back to her, frowning, his face ashen. “God’s blood. And we’re so close.” He grabbed his oar and together they pulled and strained to propel the tiny craft to an ever-greater speed across the water.

She kept glancing over her shoulder, her stomach knotting painfully as she caught sight of the other vessel.

“Jesus, I can only pray she belongs to Everard. Can ye make out the flag?”

She gasped. Flying from the mast was a banner displaying the distinctive red and yellow Sutherland colors. The knot in her stomach tightened. The faint hope that the birlinn had been one of MacNeil’s or anyone’s but Sutherland’s faded. This was the game he loved. The cat had cornered the mouse.

“She’s gaining.”

The birlinn was close enough for them to see at least twelve men at the oars and another six or so manning the two sails and the rigging.

“Is Sutherland on board? Can ye see him among the men?”

She peered at the menacing vessel bearing down on them. “Nay. I cannae see him. Is it important fer him tae be aboard?”

“Aye. I’d a mind tae finish him wi’ my claymore before he had a chance tae end me.”

A shudder rippled through her at the prospect of the fight to come. They were sorely outnumbered. Even though Maxwell was a fierce and brave warrior who had survived many a battle before this day, and she was able to wield her dirk and her ebony weapon with sufficient skill to gut or brain an opponent, there were at the least fourteen men on board the birlinn and they were only two.

She handed her oar to Maxwell while she scrambled for his two-handed claymore and handed that to him as well. His dirk was already at his belt, as was hers. She sought around under the seat for her trusty ebony rod and laid it on the bench beside her.

As the birlinn drew closer, Maxwell took up his sword, ready to meet the enemy head-on. There was no point in continuing to row, the speed of the birlinn meant it would be alongside them in minutes.

He swung the oar to take them in the direction of the shore with the faint hope that the birlinn would stay back, fearful of the rocky shoals surrounding the isle. But they followed relentlessly.

“Look ahead.” Maxwell pointed up the coast. “’Tis the bonny hills that mark our way into the Bàgh á Chaisteill , the bay where me braither’s castle lies.”

She craned her head. “Aye. I see.” She swallowed a large lump that had formed in her throat at the sight. Their pursuers had almost reached them.

So close tae our sanctuary but with so little hope of making it.

As the birlinn drew alongside, Maxwell got to his feet, grasping his claymore.

“Stay behind me, lass.”

She stayed low, having no inclination to get in Maxwell’s way once he started swinging his mighty claymore. With one hand she grasped the ebony rod and, with the other, she took her dirk from her belt. Any man foolish enough to tackle them would risk a bloody fate from the wicked, double-edge blade of Maxwell’s sword, his keen, sharp, dirk, or the slim, cruel weapons she brandished.

Maxwell called up to the birlinn where the men were gathering in the prow. A rope was thrown over, landing on the end of their wee boat. Maxwell kicked it flying into the water.

“Who of ye brave fellows will be the first tae die by me sword?”

There was a rumbling and a loud grumble from the assembled men on board the birlinn. Aileen smiled grimly. It seemed there were no men willing to leap into the fate awaiting them on the little boat.

It dawned on her that the size of their craft could be to their advantage. Although there were many men on board the birlinn, as long as they were unable to fasten the rope and capture their small vessel, they had a chance. Only two men at the most, could board their sailboat without tipping them all into the sea.

Maxwell held the claymore aloft. He was laughing now. “C’mon lads. Will ye nae partake of me sharp blade? It will be a quick death fer ye, but I cannae guarantee it will be painless.”

After a long wait and with a great deal of shouting and bellowing coming from the ranks of men, a burly man stepped to the railing, his dirk between his teeth and his claymore clutched in his two hands.

With the nimble step of a seasoned sailor, he stepped over the side and landed, cat-like on the bobbing sail-boat.

Maxwell was ready with a swift blow but the man raised his round, leather shield and it took the blow, only making a cut across the top. The shield held and the man was swift with his response. Holding her breath, Aileen watched, guessing that this man had been urged forward because he was their best fighter.

While her attention was diverted momentarily, another man slipped over the edge, armed as the first man was, and came at her. Her dirk was for close fighting and, with the shield in place, there was no way she wanted to meet him with her dirk in this tiny space. Instead, as he loomed over her, his sword raised, she bent low, swinging the murderous truncheon with all her might, aiming for the man’s knees.

There was a crunch as the blow landed. The man screamed and went backwards over the edge of their boat, the weight of his sword and shield dragging him straight to the bottom.

She glanced up in time to see another man scrambling across the deck. They circled each other, the man grinning menacingly.

Her combatant feinted with his sword. She ducked and he missed her by inches as she hefted her stout weapon. Then she spun around like a dancer and, with her full weight behind the blow, struck him across the neck. There was a terrible crunch as his neck was broken and he went down like a sack of barley. She gave his body a nudge with her boot and it slumped over the side, slipping into the water with hardly a splash.

Breathing heavily, she turned to Maxwell who was facing yet another burly lad from the birlinn. But this one was no match for Maxwell’s warrior skills and he was dispatched after only one or two badly timed sword thrusts.

He turned to her, his face blood-spattered. “Are ye hurt? I saw two of the brutes come fer ye but I wasnae able tae aid ye in yer fight.”

She managed a grim smile. “I didnae need help. Both men are now greeting the fishes below.”

“Methinks their best men are already done and they’ve nay great swordsmen to bother us now. There’s none among them that can take us.”

“Aye, I believe ye’re right there, but we cannae last forever, weak swordsmen can still deal a death blow to an exhausted opponent.”

He nodded. “We can only hope this is a ship full of cowards who will tire of being killed and set off back tae Sutherland.”

She thought on this. “Then the men will have tae face Sutherland’s wrath. He’ll have them all put tae death without turning a whisker. And they ken he’s got their women and their weans held captive, so they’ll most likely risk it wi’ us rather than return wi’ their tails between their legs like beaten dogs.”

“I’ve an idea.”

Her heart gave a small frog’s-jump at his words. Maxwell’s ideas were generally good.

“Ye’ve still that bundle of things ye brought wi’ ye. The blue gown ye bought in the markets?

“Aye. It’s still wi’ me. Tattered though. I’ll nae be wearing it tae dine in the great hall of yer braither’s castle.”

He indicated the birlinn with his chin. No other fighter had appeared amid the rumble of voices. “While they’re deciding who shall be next to die, make haste tae tear yer gown intae strips. Roll them and I’ll take me flint and make a torch of each.”

She nodded. “It’s a fire ye’re starting?”

“Aye.” He grinned. “What is it that sailors fear most at sea?”

“More than any storm, fire is their greatest terror.”

Without any further words, she retrieved her little bundle from beneath the seat and took out the blue kirtle. Without a moment’s regret, she began tearing it into strips of thick woven fabric which Maxwell quickly twisted into tapers.

In a matter of seconds, they had five of these. Maxwell took out his flint and struck it to the fabric. Within seconds he had expertly created sparks, and within a few more seconds the sparks had turned into flames. As the flames flared up, Aileen held the other fabric tapers to the blaze and almost at once they had five flaming torches.

Maxwell hurled them onto the birlinn. He grunted as one lodged in the sail and they watched the flames leap up. “Let’s hope that the entire sweaty boatload of these miscreants catches fire.”

A cry of “Fire” went up on the birlinn and immediately the grumbling and arguing voices died down as the men raced to stomp out the flames.

Aileen seized this moment to raise the sail again. “Quick, Maxwell. The oars.”

Soon they were flying toward the distant hills, the breeze filling the sail and both working the oars as fast as their aching, tired, bodies would permit. It was not long before the birlinn faded into the distance. All that remained was a grey spiral of smoke floating in the sky. It was clear there would be no further attempt at pursuit this day.

As they rounded the headland and, at last, sailed into Castle Bay, they let go the of oars and raised a cheer. Aileen steadied her still shaking hands and smiled up at Maxwell.

“We’ve made it.” Her voice was soft with the amazement and joy of it.

Maxwell grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips. He pointed to the castle built on an islet centered in the bay. “There it is, Kiessimul Castle, the seat of Clan MacNeil.”

The sun was glinting on the water as they neared the little island.

“The sun is shining. A good omen for our arrival here,” Aileen said, gazing up at the imposing building that almost seemed to be floating above the bay.

She mused approvingly on the wisdom of building a castle where any stealthy attack was all but impossible and the defenders of the castle would always have the upper hand. She pictured the archers taking aim from the battlements at anyone attempting to scale the forbidding stone walls. Not only arrows would fly but also cauldrons filled with boiling water or fat could well find their mark.

Outside the castle walls there was a large boat-landing where several birlinns of varying sizes were attached to moorings, along with smaller boats similar to the fisherman’s boat they were sailing.

“I dinnae see Everard’s birlinn riding at anchor.” Maxwell remarked as they drew into the boat-landing.

“Mayhap yer braither is searching the seas fer ye even now.”

He grunted. “Mayhap he’s travelled all the way tae Dunrobin.”

“Let us hope that he is nae at this very moment a prisoner in Sutherland’s dungeon.”

At that, Maxwell gave a sharp little laugh. “The Laird of the MacNeils is nae as foolish as meself. He’ll never go as a friend into Sutherland’s domain.”

Before they had finished tying up the boat, three unsmiling, fierce-looking, burly, guards from Kiessimul Castle appeared.

The older of the three men, a sturdy, grey-hair, took a step forward and held up his hand.

“What business have ye at Castle Kiessimul?”

Maxwell grinned, brushing the hair from his face. “Ranald Dunbar, have ye forgotten me.” He stood and faced the man.

Ranald looked up, recognition dawning in his eyes. He laughed. “Ye rascal. I heard ye were gone. Captured. A prisoner of that filth Andrew Sutherland.”

Maxwell turned to Aileen. “This is the man who taught me to sail.”

“And I was the man who told the wee devil never to venture too far. He’s been ignoring all me words ever since.” He stepped forward and slapped his hand on Maxwell’s shoulder and turned to the other two guards who were watching this in puzzlement.

“This is the laird’s wee brother. Ye’ve nay need tae puzzle over this. He’s been gone many months and we see him at home only on rare occasions.”

He grew serious. “Word came that ye’d been taken to the east coast. The Laird and his best men set out in the hope they’d catch ye before it was too late. He’s left yer sister, Raven to fill his shoes as Clan Chief. A message came that ye’d been taken to Dunrobin.”

“Och lad. ‘Tis true. I was there but one night. It was enough to convince me that Sutherland meant me naught but ill. It was this wee lass, Aileen MacAlpin, that helped me escape his clutches.”

Ranald doffed his bonnet in greeting to Aileen. “I thank ye from the bottom of me heart. This one is precious tae us all at Kiessimul.”

He looked them over but made no comment about the bloodstains each of them wore prominently on their faces and clothing.

“That’s some travelling ye’ve been doing. And I can see ye look the worse for it. I ken ye’re in need of a meal, a bath and a change of clothing.” They both nodded. “And which of these should come first.”

“A bath,” Aileen exclaimed.

“A meal.”

Ranald looked from one to the other, and laughed. “I think the lass is the wise one here, lad. If ye turn up in the great hall looking like ye dae, I dinnae believe there’ll be one serf or servant or yer own sister prepared to consider ye’re the laird’s braither.”

A bath it was.