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

Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I t was dark, the moon hidden behind forbidding clouds, but Maxwell had sailed so many times to the Isle of Canna that his hands on the sail and the guiding oar almost knew their way without any assistance.

Aileen, Everard and Arne sat in silence, Arne and Everard at the oars, Aileen standing beside Maxwell by the sail.

The plan was firm in their minds. The rough map Séamus had drawn showed them the small inlet where they could land some distance from where the soldiers patrolled. He’d chuckled as he’d described their landing place.

“Sutherland’s so full of arrogance he and his men would never expect ye’d have the courage tae make a raid on his domain. He thinks ye’re cornered and all he needs tae dae is starve ye intae surrender. He’ll make short work of the MacLeods if they dare tae try and rescue ye.”

Maxwell prayed that Seamus’s words held true. They all well knew surprise was their chief ally if the mission was to succeed.

At one point Aileen grabbed Maxwell with one hand, pointing with the other. Almost alongside them was the dark shape of a birlinn, only its pinpoint lights giving away its position. He turned their little boat, steering to portside as the bigger ship passed them only feet away. They were buffeted by the birlinn’s wake but moved swiftly beyond it, all four breathing sighs of relief.

It was not long before they came in sight of the island, and following the detailed instructions given by Finn and Séamus, were soon inside the tiny cove, some distance from the soldiers’ encampment.

Pebbles scraped the hull and Everard and Maxwell slipped soundlessly over the edge. Aileen was on her feet, one leg extended over the side of the boat when Maxwell seized the hull and pushed the boat out. With a muted oath, Aileen stumbled back, landing with a thud on the deck. Arne grabbed the oars and with a few strokes was rowing them into deeper water.

As Maxwell waded ashore, he heard Aileen and Arne’s frantic whispering. Without her knowledge, the three had made the decision that it was too risky for her to join with them on the next leg of their journey to Sutherland’s camp.

Maxwell well knew that, should she be captured, her life would be the leverage Sutherland would hold over them. Arne accompanying them to keep watch on the boat that would take them safely back to Barra, had agreed to act as Aileen’s temporary jailer, ensuring she did not attempt to follow.

Wading to shore, Maxwell smiled grimly to himself as he joined the waiting Everard, already picturing Aileen’s furious remarks once their mission was complete.

After a short walk along the pebbly shore, they found the small track Seamus and Finn had described. This would lead them higher, circling the island, and eventually bring them to the main path that would take them to Sutherland’s tent.

They set off, still sheltered by the cloud cover that kept the moon from shining brightly on their way. As they progressed, the faint sounds from the encampment drifted in the air and before long they found themselves at a vantage point able to look down on the men from the cover of large rocks. Obviously, this was the main encampment, lit by a large fire in the middle of a grassy area.

Maxwell did a quick head count. There were at least fifteen guards patrolling the camp or seated by the fire. He assumed there were at least as many asleep in the numerous tents dotting the grassy area.

There was no doubting they would have the devil’s job getting Sutherland down the path if they succeeded in capturing him. His slightest sound would alert his men he was under attack.

It was a grim prospect: two lads against at least thirty men. Although Maxwell and Everard were both battle-hardened warriors and strong, resourceful and fierce fighters, the odds were definitely not in their favor.

They exchanged glances, each aware of the other’s thoughts.

They crept on, their scrappy path finally merging with the well-used track that would lead them to Sutherland. Finn’s and Séamus’s directions had, so far, been accurate. He could only pray the remainder of their quest would prove to be as smooth as their arrival had been.

Finn was adamant that Sutherland’s insisted only one guard should stand outside his tent. According to her, this foolhardiness was due to Sutherland’s supreme arrogance and his unswerving belief in his swordsmanship.

Crouching low, they approached the tent. Sure enough, there was only a lone figure standing guard. Moving slowly forward, Everard signaled he would take the guard, leaving Maxwell to undo the fastenings and enter.

If Sutherland was sleeping, their job would be straightforward. If the man was awake there would be a whole world of difference. Even at a distance, a cry from Sutherland would bring the guards down on them in minutes.

Luck was on the side of Sutherland.

As Everard stepped behind the guard, a twig underfoot snapped loudly enough to alert the man. He turned, crying “Who goes…?” before Everard’s dirk silenced him forever.

But the snapping twig was all it took to wake Sutherland. and, by the time Maxwell had fumbled the tent fastenings aside, Sutherland had seized his claymore and dirk and was crouched in his britches shirtless. Ready. His shouts alerted the guards at the encampment.

Gripping his claymore and buckler with an iron grip, Maxwell strode forward to face his

enemy. “Come without a fight or taste steel,” he hissed. The answer came in blazing sword strokes.

Sutherland’s blade cut air as Maxwell sidestepped to avoid being run through. On came Sutherland, a lunge with the dirk drawing blood from Maxwell’s side before his buckler deflected the killing stroke, its studded boss connecting with Sutherland’s jaw, snapping his head back.

For a moment they edged back and forth, testing the distance within the shadows of the cramped space. Maxwell felt nothing but cold fire in his blood, catching the grim light in his enemy’s eye.

He was dimly aware of the clashing of Everard’s sword against a new foe outside.

Then all was action as Maxwell feinted left to draw his adversary’s sword, then counterstruck with a blaze of slashing attacks that drove his man back, the claymore in his two fists slamming through Sutherland’s defense with savage force. The momentum drove his blade in an arc down the length of Sutherland’s arm, shoulder to wrist. The dirk clattered to the ground as Maxwell pressed what would have been a killing stroke, held in check only by the sudden shock of Aileen’s piercing scream.

Aware that outside a retinue of guards were forcing Everard back, all Maxwell saw was Aileen writhing, helpless, in the grip of two brutes. Glimpsing the fresh, bloody claw wounds on the men’s bloated faces he felt a moment’s satisfaction before the full horror of the situation dawned.

“Oh, your liability.” Sutherland gloated in bitter disbelief at this sudden turn of events. “There is nay luck in this fer ye, but fer me there is.” He followed as Maxwell retreated into the firelight.

Maxwell groaned. By all the saints in heaven and the demons in hell, this was the very reason he’d commanded Aileen to stay with Arne in the boat. She’d played straight into Sutherland’s hands.

Of course, that stubborn, single-minded, unstoppable Aileen MacAlpin would never dae as she was told.

Sutherland’s arm hung limp, fresh blood dripping from his fingers, but his sword arm was held high as he jabbed the air in front of Maxwells face. “Lower yer sword and shield...”

Everard stepped toward his brother and was checked by a poleaxe from one of the men holding Aileen just as Sutherland crossed to her and laid the flat of his blade against her breast.

“Drop yer weapons, both of ye.” He turned from the brothers where they stood side-by-side at the fire. Glowering into Aileen’s eyes, his breath came heavily, raw and sour on her face.

“Tell them tae dae as I say.” His sword ripped the lacing at the neckline of her shirt. “Obey me, ye whore!”

She lifted her head and spat directly in his face.

“Nay,” she yelled. “Dinnae lower yer swords.”

With the back of his hand, Sutherland wiped off her spittle.

“If ye wish tae keep the lass alive fer a heartbeat longer, ye’ll throw down yer weapon. Or…” he twisted his mouth in a cruel grin. “D’ye wish tae watch me slit her throat?”

Everard dropped his sword and raised his hands. “Let the lass go free.”

Maxwell hesitated. He would never trust Sutherland.

Aileen kept shaking her head. “Dinnae dae as he says.”

At that moment two guards stormed into the tent. Together they dragged a fragile, thin-shanked, grey-haired man clad in ragged, soiled clothing. They wrenched the old man up, his feet scarcely holding him steady, his head drooping between his shoulders.

Aileen froze. “Faither?”

He looked up, managing a faint smile at the sight of his daughter. One of his rough captors pressed a dirk to his neck and a thin trickle of blood appeared, staining what remained of the collar of the old man’s shirt.

Sutherland studied the old man as he wavered, swaying as he attempted to stay upright. He turned to Aileen, a sly expression on his face. “Now, me dear. Ye must choose. Yer man drops his sword or I give the order tae take yer dear faither’s life. Which is it tae be? MacNeil or MacAlpin?

Maxwell hesitated no further. He flung his claymore down, cursing Sutherland as he did so. “Poxy knave.”

Sutherland moved across to Aileen whose arms were still twisted behind her back. Her face was black as thunder, her breath coming in short panting bursts of fury. Her lip curled as she glared at Sutherland.

“Ye have nay right tae walk this earth with good men such as me faither and Maxwell MacNeil and his braither.” Her eyes were lit with a fierce light as she stared down the man who had tormented her and her father for so many years.

With a sudden sharp twist, she wrenched her arm away and the man who’d been holding her was suddenly empty-handed. Before another breath could be drawn, she’d snatched the small knife from her boot and plunged it to the hilt into Sutherland’s neck, Andrew unprepared for the sudden attack.

He reeled back, hurling curses at her. Then, with one movement he pulled the dagger from his throat, blood spurting, and swung the weapon at Aileen.

Before either could move, Maxwell had scooped his claymore into his hands and with a roar of battle rage he flung himself headlong at Sutherland, running him through with the mighty sword.

The man fell to his knees, his eyes already sightless, the breath gone from his body. He tumbled head-first, dead, at Aileen’s feet.

Aileen froze, mouth agape, her eyes roaming over the body of as if she could scarcely believe her eyes. The guards who had been manhandling her father with so little care, fled from the tent the instant Sutherland fell, afraid for their lives.

Maxwell and Everard dashed to Barclay’s side and were busy relieving him from the chains binding his arms to his sides.

The old man nodded his head. “Thank ye lads. I kent ye would come here sooner or later before that…” He glanced at Sutherland’s prone figure. “…that fiend could attack ye at Barra.”

“Faither!” Aileen dashed across and took him in her arms just as the last of the chains fell away.

She wrenched off her almost-dry cloak and draped it over his shoulders, dabbing at the trickle of blood at his throat. Although she was shaking and shivering, her concern was for her father.

She turned to Maxwell as tears began streaming down her cheeks. “Ye saved us. Ye and Everard. I’ll never be able tae thank ye enough, even if I should live tae the age of two hundred years.”

Maxwell wrapped an arm around her. “Yer thank-ye’s can wait, lass. We’ve needs be gone from this place, in case Sutherland’s men take it intae their heads tae take vengeance fer the death of their laird.”

“Most of them will be relieved. He was a cruel master and was hated by many of his men.”

“We cannae count on that,” Everard said briskly, already stepping toward the opening in the tent. “’Tis past time we were on our way.”

Aileen’s hand shot to her mouth. “But me faither is too weak. He’ll nay be able tae make it down that craggy pathway tae the beach.” Shaking her head, she brushed the tears from her cheeks.

The old man shook his head. “Dinnae risk yerself fer me, lass. I will stay here. Go while ye can. I will take me chances here.”

“I cannae leave ye, Da.” She took her father’s arm.

Maxwell pshawed. “Nay while there is breath in me body will I leave ye here, lass.” He turned to Everard. “Can we make room in our boat fer this wee man?” He turned to Everard, his lips quirking in a hint of a grin.

“Aye. He weights naught more than a dandelion. He’ll come wi’ us tae Barra.”

Everard joined Aileen, taking Barclay’s other arm, and together they assisted him to the entrance of the tent. Two of the guards he’d dealt with lay still. A third lay groaning and holding his bloody arm.

From the encampment came rallying shouts. The men would be upon them swiftly.

Maxwell gripped his huge claymore. “Ye three go ahead. Make haste, I’ll follow in case they come fer us.”

They were almost at the shore when the first of the men appeared on the trail behind them.

Maxwell stepped forward, brandishing his claymore in both hands. “Who will be first among ye tae meet his laird in the hereafter?”

They paused. The man in the lead stepped forward. He was a big fellow, matching Maxwell for size. The others fell back as their man prepared for the clash with Maxwell.

“Go. Aileen. Everard,” Maxwell ground out. “Dinnae wait fer me.”

“Lass.” Everard urged a reluctant Aileen to continue down the path. “Dinnae fash. Ye should ken me braither by now. None of these wretches, nay matter their size, can best him.”

It took little more than a few moments before the man was kneeling at Maxwell’s claymore, begging for mercy. His own sword, flicked out of his hand with one swift blow, was descending over the rocks below with a series of loud clangs

Maxwell pushed the man aside with his boot. “Is there another who wishes tae meet the same fate?”

The men remained where they were. Not one was prepared to meet Maxwell’s might.

“In that case, since none of yer men dare tae fight, I’ll spare this foolish knave.” He searched the group but there was nothing but defeat in their slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. “Should any of ye come after us, ye’ll meet the same fate as yer laird.”

The man stumbled to his feet and the remainder of the group lowered their weapons. Maxwell waited until they had turned and trudged some distance up the hill before he spun around and followed the path down to the beach.

Aileen was seeking him with anxious eyes as he appeared, stepping lightly across the rocky foreshore.

“Hurry lass, dinnae wait fer me. The men have retreated, but there are many more of them in the camp. Who kens how long it will be before it dawns on their addled brains that they outnumber us?”

With an amused huff, she waded into the water and across to the boat, Maxwell following close behind. Arne held the boat steady as Everard gently lifted Aileen’s father into the boat.

As Aileen tumbled over the side, Maxwell gave the boat a hefty shove, heaving himself on board as it moved off. He grabbed an oar and squeezed into the tiny seat beside Everard, who was already using his oar to turn the boat in the direction of home. As Arne unfurled it, the little sail billowed in the wind and Aileen settled into the stern, cradling her father in her arms.

Within minutes they were skimming the waters of the Isle of Canna, on their way to Barra.

They were safe. Aileen was his.