2 PLUNDERER OF THE SEAS
Oban
Scotland
Two days later …
“YE ARE SITTING at our table, Rankin.”
The gruff voice caused Alec to lower the tankard of ale he’d been about to drink from. He then flashed the broad-shouldered man striding toward him a dismissive glance. “Oh, aye?”
MacDonald’s green eyes narrowed as he drew to a halt. “Aye … and ye know it too.”
Alec cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t see yer name carved here, Camron.” He gestured then, at the numerous unoccupied tables. “Sit somewhere else this eve.”
The mercenary’s frown deepened. “Move yer arses, or we’ll do it for ye.” He looked around at the crowd of rough men behind him. “Won’t we, lads?”
“Aye,” one of them growled. “Nobody takes our seats at The Baited Creel .”
Alec shrugged and glanced at his crew. A dozen of them sat with him around the long oaken table in the corner of the dingy, smoke-filled common room. Tucked into a wynd behind the docks, and frequented only by mercenaries and pirates, The Baited Creel was a rough establishment. But the ale was good, as were their mutton pies.
And it was the best place to go looking for a fight.
Indeed, Alec had chosen this tavern especially, for he knew that Camron MacDonald, a blade-for-hire with a mean streak, was a mouthy sort and liked a scrap. He was also more territorial than a boar.
“What do ye think?” Alec drawled, favoring his crew with a goading smile. “Should we give up our table to these dung eaters?”
“I don’t think so.” His second mate, Gunn, put down his half-finished pie and started to crack his knuckles. The pirate had huge scarred hands and a battered face to match. Gunn’s nose had been broken so many times that it was now lumpy and shapeless. “I’m comfortable here.”
“Aye.” His first mate, Cory—a whip-thin pirate with close-cropped black hair and a wispy beard—agreed coolly. “We all are.”
“I don’t care if ye’re as happy as pigs in shit,” Camron replied, flexing his large hands at his sides. “This table is ours.”
“We aren’t moving,” Alec said, taking a gulp from his cup of ale. “So, what are ye going to do about it?”
Camron’s lip curled. He then pushed his long dark hair back from his face and stepped forward, his eyes glinting. “Ye strut about like a stag, Rankin … the legendary ‘spùinneadair-mara’, whose very name strikes fear into the hearts of sailors.” He paused then, sneering. “But these days, I hear rumors that ye are little more than Loch Maclean’s dog.”
This comment brought murmured curses and scowls from those seated at the table, although Alec merely inclined his head. “Was that supposed to insult me?”
Camron spat on the dirty reed-strewn floor between them. “Aye.”
Limping out of The Baited Creel a short while later, Alec spat a gob of blood onto the ground. He then cast a glance over his shoulder at where Cory emerged from the tavern behind him. His first mate had taken a heavy punch to the eye. It had already swollen closed.
With his good eye, Cory regarded his captain. “Ye made a mess of MacDonald,” he wheezed, still breathless from the brawl. “His face wasn’t pretty before … but now bairns will run screaming at the sight of him.”
Wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand, Alec flashed him a violent smile. Camron had played straight into his hands. “Good. Serves the shitweasel right for trying to break my leg.”
The rest of his crew had already left the tavern. They now waited in the narrow wynd beyond, grins on their battered faces. It had been a bruising fight, but they’d bested Camron and his friends in the end, leaving them bleeding, and groaning curses through swollen lips as Alec flicked the proprietor an extra coin for his trouble.
Camron was vicious and fought dirty, but Alec did too. Even so, the mercenary had loosened one of his teeth and his left knee now throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
A crisp, salty wind sprang up as the crew of The Blood Reiver made their way out of the wynd, ducking under washing lines and emerging on the quay beyond.
“Do ye think that worked then?” Cory murmured, falling back to walk alongside his captain.
Alec shot him a side-long glance. “It’s a start.”
“I suppose the lads look happier now,” his first mate admitted.
“They’d better be.” Alec wiped once more at the blood that still trickled down his chin. Indeed, they were laughing and ribbing each other in the aftermath of the fight, in contrast to the surly faces and glowers he’d witnessed of late. “There’s nothing like a good brawl to improve yer mood.”
Cory snorted at that but didn’t contradict him.
If he were honest, Alec didn’t share his crew’s high spirits in the aftermath of the fight. Camron MacDonald’s insult earlier had hit closer to the mark than he’d ever admit. The fact was that most of his crew weren’t happy about the ‘agreement’ he had with the Macleans of Duart these days, whereby they left their ships and ports be. Three years earlier, they’d come to the clan’s aid during a battle against the Mackinnons of Dùn Ara—and ever since, The Blood Reiver had raided elsewhere.
Silence settled between the captain and his first mate. Eventually, Alec glanced at Cory again, noting he was stroking his wispy beard, something he always did when deep in thought. Alec frowned. “What is it?”
“Time was, just the mention of Alec Rankin and The Blood Reiver’s crew would have men pissing their braies,” Cory replied warily. “But people don’t fear us like they once did.”
Alec stiffened, scowling. He didn’t like to admit it, but these days he was flirting with mutiny. Cory was still unfailingly loyal—the only one among them whom he could trust not to sink a dirk into his back—but he’d heard the whispered insults of late.
Rankin’s losing his edge.
Ever since he fought alongside the Macleans, he minds them too much.
When was the last time The Blood Reiver lived up to her name?
Our captain’s balls have shriveled.
Aye, Alec needed to do more than drag his men into a brawl. He needed to give them the adventure they craved. The truth was they hadn’t reived as much of late. The Blood Reiver spent more time at port than she did at sea. And Alec had no excuse for it—except that this life was starting to exhaust him.
There had been a time when he’d thought he’d never tire of sailing the high seas—of boarding a merchant cog and terrorizing its crew before taking his plunder—but, these days, it was difficult to dredge up his old enthusiasm.
Meanwhile, his crew walked on, their boots thumping upon the wooden quay, their rough laughter echoing off the water. It grew late, and a waxing gibbous moon was playing hide-and-seek with scudding clouds. Cogs and birlinns nudged against the docks, while laughter and raucous, drunken singing drifted out from the town.
Alec flexed his hands, his knuckles still throbbing from the fight, at his sides.
He never liked to linger long in Oban, for it brought back memories, most of them unpleasant. He’d grown up here, a port urchin, scavenging and living rough. They’d been hard years.
Up ahead, he spied the mast of his cog, The Blood Reiver , piercing the night sky like a schiltron pike. Her single large emerald woolen sail was furled, the ship’s high clinker-built sides frosted by moonlight.
His chest tightened then as pride swelled. At first glance, she appeared a merchant’s cog. But The Reiver was fast and could outpace even the swiftest birlinns when the wind was right. And her crew were all seasoned sailors and warriors who lived to pillage the seas.
Curse him, his crew was right about him. He’d lost his focus and gotten soft, and when a pirate lost his edge, he was as good as dead. If he wanted to remain at the helm of The Blood Reiver , he needed to take steps to claw back his reputation. He needed to ignite a fire in his belly once more.
Wincing as pain lanced through his injured knee, he quickened his pace to close the gap between him and the waiting cog before clearing his throat. “Ready to go plundering, lads?” His voice carried along the quay, causing his men to halt and swivel around to face him. An instant later, grins split their faces.
“Aye, Captain!” Gunn shouted back.
Alec’s gaze swept over them. “Loch Maclean warned me off stirring up the Mackinnons of Dùn Ara after the Battle of Dounarwyse” —it was true, the clan-chief wanted a long-lasting peace to settle upon the isle— “but it’s now time we looked after our own interests.” He marked the hungry glint in their eyes as he continued, “We shall take The Reiver around the southern tip of Mull and head up the western coast into Mackinnon territory … what say ye all?”
Nods and approving murmurs followed before Cory spoke up. “A good choice, Captain. Let’s make their young clan-chief gnash his teeth.”
Alec grinned, violence kindling in his veins. That was more like it. Maybe he was in the mood for some reiving, after all. Bran Mackinnon would be entertaining to rile. The hot-tempered lad had stepped into his father’s role three years earlier, after a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Macleans and their allies. Ever since, he’d struggled to earn his people’s respect. The Mackinnons of Mull were vulnerable at present. “Plenty of cogs leave Dùn Ara, bound for The Small Isles and Skye,” he added. “We shall prey upon them.”
“Aye!” one of the older pirates called out. “We shall turn the sea red with Mackinnon blood … like we did at Dounarwyse!”
“They’ll be crying for their mothers,” a younger pirate, Athol, added with a savage grin. “Soon, they’ll fear us as they do the Ghost Raiders.”
Athol’s comment made a few smiles around him slip. Gunn even crossed himself and then cuffed the younger man around the ear. “Clod-head, they aren’t men … but demons.”
“Lucifer’s host,” someone else muttered. “It’s ill-luck to mention them.”
“Enough,” Alec cut in, eager to turn the conversation away from the ‘specters’ that had been terrorizing The Western Isles of late. They sailed into shore on misty nights upon a phantom ship and left devastation in their wake—talk of them made people, even hardened pirates, uneasy. “The Ghost Raiders are nothing more than superstition and exaggeration,” he said, a harsh edge creeping into his voice. “But we are real … as are our blades. Let’s bloody them!”
The shouts of his crew were resounding. “Aye!”