CHAPTER FIVE
“Hold the gangplank.” Malcolm’s order cut cleanly through the grey of first light.
The men nearest the rail obeyed before the echo of his voice had finished crossing the deck.
Two seized the ropes, another stepped before the lowered plank, and the ship seemed to draw itself tighter beneath Malcolm’s feet, as if timber, sail, and crew had all understood that the morning had brought trouble.
Mist lay heavy over the harbor. It clung low on the water and softened the outlines of masts, roofs, cranes, and dockside warehouses until every shape appeared half-formed, as if the world had been built in haste and left unfinished.
The smell of wet rope, fish, cold iron, and tar rose from the planks.
Somewhere behind him, a gull gave a harsh cry and was answered by another farther off.
Malcolm was standing at the rail and looked down on the men gathering at the dock. He had expected them.
A man like Beathan Drummond did not lose his prey in public and then console himself with dignity. He returned with witnesses, steel, and a voice loud enough to make falsehood sound like authority.
Drummond himself stood at the center of the party, wrapped in a dark riding cloak trimmed with fur too fine for a wet harbor morning.
He was large, broad through the chest, heavy at the shoulders, his wealth displayed in the polish of his boots and the silver at his belt.
Age had not weakened him so much as thickened him.
Everything about the man seemed made to fill the space he occupied and then claim the rest of it besides.
One of his men appeared at Malcolm’s left, still fastening his sword belt. “He comes early.”
“Men with poor claims often dae.”
The man’s mouth twitched, but his eyes remained on the dock. “Shall I wake the lady?”
Malcolm did not answer at once. He should have spared himself the complication of her presence when Drummond began shouting ownership before half the harbor.
But he had learned one thing of Lady Grizel Calder in the short time since she had invaded his ship: she would not thank any man for hiding her from her own fate.
“She will come if she chooses,” Malcolm spoke.
The man glanced at him, sharp enough to show he had heard more than the words. Wisely, he said nothing.
From below, Drummond raised his voice. “Laird MacAulay!”
The harbor seemed to pause around the name. Sailors on nearby vessels slowed their work. A fisherman with a basket under one arm stopped near a stack of crates. Even the gulls appeared to wheel lower, as if scandal had a scent.
Malcolm looked down without leaning upon the rail.
“Laird Drummond.”
Drummond’s face was flushed already, though whether from anger, the cold, or last night’s wine, Malcolm did not know. “I have come for what is mine.”
Malcolm did not move. “Ye will need tae be more specific. Men who speak so broadly in harbors are often disappointed.”
A few of Malcolm’s crew shifted. One coughed to hide a laugh. Drummond’s gaze cut toward the sound, then back to Malcolm anger making his countenance redder still.
“Ye ken well whom I mean. Lady Grizel Calder is aboard yer ship.”
“She is.”
The admission moved through the dock like a struck bell. Drummond straightened as if he had been handed proof enough to hang a man.
“Then return her at once.”
“Nae.” The word was not raised. It did not need to be.
Drummond’s face hardened into something less public, more private and uglier for it. “Ye harbor a woman promised tae me.”
“I harbor a woman who came tae me ship asking speech.”
“She is me betrothed.”
The lie struck the deck before the man finished speaking. It was a clever enough move if a man cared only to apply pressure. Speak the claim aloud, before witnesses. Force denial to sound like scandal. Make the woman’s presence aboard another man’s ship seem proof of shame rather than desperation.
Malcolm’s hand remained loose at his side, despite the anger slowly rising within.
Then, the cabin door opened behind him, he turned slightly to see Lady Calder coming onto the deck.
Wrapped tightly in her cloak, she was pale, but her chin was high.
There was nothing soft in her face now. There was no trace of the exhausted woman who had sat in his cabin with a cup between her hands and fury holding her upright.
This woman had dressed herself in pride because armor wasn’t available in a lady’s arsenal.
Malcolm hated, with sudden sharpness, that she had been made to require it.
Drummond saw her and changed. The man’s anger became satisfaction, and satisfaction became possession. His eyes fixed upon her as if the space between them were merely an inconvenience to be crossed.
“Grizel,” Drummond called, and the name in his mouth sounded like a prison door closing. “Come down.”
She stepped to the rail, though Malcolm moved before she reached it, placing himself near enough that Drummond could not look at her without also seeing him.
“I am nae yers tae summon,” she answered.
The watching harbor stirred again.
Drummond’s smile appeared slow and false. “Ye are overwrought. Such conduct may be forgiven, given the confusion of the hour. Come down, and I will overlook this.”
Malcolm felt his men’s attention sharpen beside him.
Grizel’s hand tightened on the rail until her knuckles paled. “There is nae confusion, me laird. There also is nae betrothal.”
Drummond’s smile thinned. She drew a folded paper from within her cloak. The sight of it made Malcolm look at her more fully than he had since she had come on deck. This was a surprise.
“Me faither has given nae signed agreement,” she called, her voice clear enough that men on the neighboring docks turned toward it. “Nae contract binds me tae Laird Drummond. I carry Laird Calder’s own letter and seal proving it.”
For one heartbeat, Malcolm felt something like fierce approval move through him. She had not merely run. She had armed herself with what law she could carry in her hand.
Drummond’s face darkened. “Yer father is a desperate man. Desperate men should not forget what they have promised.”
“A desperate man may bend,” Grizel returned. “But ink does nae appear where none was set.”
Men like Drummond had little patience for proof when force stood near at hand.
He lifted two fingers. One of his men moved at once.
The soldier reached the deck, but Malcolm seized him by the wrist, twisted it until the fingers opened, and heard the knife strike the deck.
Then he dragged the man toward the gangplank and flung him backward.
At that moment, the gangplank became a stage of violence.
Two of Drummond’s soldiers rushed it together. Angus met the first with the butt of a boarding axe and drove him sideways into the second. One of his men drew steel, catching a thrust and turning it down so sharply the attacker nearly followed his own blade to the planks.
Another soldier lunged for the side rail. Malcolm crossed to him, caught his sleeve and hair together, and slammed him face-first against the outer hull before shoving him down into the waiting arms of two dockside men who had not expected to receive him.
Drummond’s voice cut through the struggle. “Ye think this ends here, MacAulay? Ye lay hands on me men and steal me promised wife before witnesses?”
“She is nae your wife,” Malcolm snarled.
“She is promised tae me!”
“Then show the contract!”
Drummond’s eyes flashed. He took one step forward, only to halt when Angus shifted the boarding axe in both hands.
“I hold proof enough,” Drummond hissed. “Letters, witnesses tae Calder’s intent. The king will hear of this.”
“The king hears many things,” Malcolm scoffed. “Most of them from men eager tae dress greed as grievance.”
“Ye pirate bastard!”
An ominous hush followed the barb, brief but distinct. Malcolm felt his crew’s reaction, though no movement was apparent. Insult to him mattered less than insult to the clan, and Drummond had spoken loudly enough to hand every MacAulay on deck permission to remember old instincts.
Malcolm had but to lift one hand, and his men held, respecting his command.
He looked down at Drummond, and for a moment the harbor, the mist, the watching men, the Crown’s decree, the politics of marriage and threat and insult narrowed into one clear thing.
Beathan Drummond was a man accustomed to rooms changing shape around his will.
He expected fear to rearrange furniture, silence mouths, open doors, and lower gangplanks.
Malcolm’s voice dropped. “Ye will take yer men and leave me dock.”
“This is nae yer dock,” Drummond retorted.
“Me ship makes it mine enough.”
Drummond turned to Grizel. “Ye think him yer salvation?” Drummond laughed once, a sound that was ugly and short.
“He is a sea wolf with a laird’s title and a rope around his neck from the Crown.
He will use ye until yer usefulness thins, and then we shall see whether ye prefer the sea tae a lawful hearth. ”
Malcolm felt the truth of the words more than he wanted to admit.
Enough.
He turned from Drummond to his first mate. “Make ready.”
“Aye, me laird.”
The words cracked across the deck like a released line. Men moved instantly. The ship, already prepared from long habit and Malcolm’s suspicion that the morning would bring exactly this, shifted into departure.
Drummond came to the edge of the dock. “Grizel, this defiance will cost ye.”
Malcolm turned his head slightly, enough to see her from the corner of his eye.
Drummond smiled menacingly. “Yer faither cannae protect ye. This man will nae. Remember that when the king’s men ask whether ye were stolen or whether ye whored yerself aboard a pirate ship tae escape an honorable match.”
The deck changed. Malcolm felt it in the silence. Then, he was at the rail before sense had fully cooled the movement. He looked down at Drummond, and the thing in him that had been leashed all morning strained hard enough to hurt.
Control, he reminded himself. Nae for Drummond’s sake. For hers.
If he answered insult with blood now, Drummond would make a martyr of himself by noon and a case by nightfall. So, he smiled. It was worse than rage.
“If ye mean tae speak of honor,” Malcolm shouted as the ship was leaving, “best find some first. The word sounds lonely in yer mouth.”
Drummond remained where he was, with one hand still at his weapon, and his eyes fixed on the deck.
“This is nae done!” he shouted.
“Nae,” Malcolm replied, though he doubted the man heard him over the sudden pull of wind in sail. “I expect nae.”
The ship drew farther out. The dock began to lose detail. Drummond’s men became shapes, dark and distorted in the morning haze. He shouted something more about the king, proof and rightful claim.
Malcolm turned away before the words reached meaning. Grizel’s eyes were focused on him. He forced himself to still. He could not stand on deck looking at her as if Drummond’s insult had cut him personally. He could not let the crew see too clearly what even he did not intend to examine.
“Come below,” he urged.
She took one step, and her injured leg betrayed her enough that her breath caught. Malcolm’s hand came to her elbow. The contact was brief, but it still struck through him with unwelcome force.
She stilled beneath his hand, not pulling away, not leaning in. Malcolm loosened his grip at once.
“It’s only for balance,” he whispered.
Her throat moved. Then, she nodded.
Together they crossed the deck toward his cabin, while the crew pretended not to watch with the complete failure of men pretending anything. But then, Malcolm saw the strength go out of her a heartbeat before she fell.
The letter slipped from Grizel’s fingers, her proud chin dipped, and she swayed, but Malcolm was already moving, catching her against him before the deck could claim her.
For one terrible instant, with her weight slack in his arms and her eyes rolling shut, he forgot every man watching and saw only that she had gone still.