Captured by the Pirate Laird (2 page)

Blinking,
Anne steadied herself on the rail. Raindrops splashed cold on her skin. Her shift
clung to her legs like a flapping sail. Shivering, she pushed the hair from her
face and peered into the darkness. Sailors scurried in every direction while
the quartermaster delivered a ceaseless barrage of shouts. “Climb the crows
nest with your musket, Davey boy…Ready your cutlasses men…Unfurl the jib…”

Her
heart nearly burst through her chest when an earsplitting boom lit up the sea less
than a league away. She crouched and threw her arms over her head. A cannonball
careened into the water mere feet from where she stood. Anne looked across the
rail and ice filled her veins. A carrack bore down on them, flying a Jolly
Roger—the unmistakable skull and crossbones of a pirate ship.

Captain
Fortescue barreled down from the quarterdeck and threw an arm around Anne’s
shoulder. “Get back to your cabin. Lock the door. Open it for no one.”

She
leaned into his warmth. “We’re under attack?”

“We’ll
outrun them.”

“But
they’re on a course to cross our bow.”

The
captain’s thin lips told her he was well aware of the pirate ship’s strategy.
Outrunning the heavier carrack would not be an option. He strengthened his grip
and led her back through the corridor. “Remember what I said. Lock. The. Door.”

He
pushed Anne into her stateroom with such force, she stumbled against her trunk.
She reached out and turned the lock with trembling fingers, then wrapped
herself in her dressing gown, damp shift and all.

The
galleon rocked beneath her feet. She turned full circle and hugged herself. Each
breath shuddered. Being locked in her stateroom was far worse than standing on
the deck. At least out there she could
see
what was happening. With every earsplitting blast, the ship quaked. Her trunks
jostled. Water slapped against the hull, and her blood ran cold. She honestly
could not swim.

How could the baron abandon me on a
galleon with pirates sailing these waters? He most certainly has not appraised
well in my eyes. The gutless miser will have much to answer for when I reach
Alnwick. Leaving me alone without Hanna. And then there’s my uncle, the
mastermind of this whole marriage scheme—curse him too!

A
cannon boomed. Anne’s entire body jolted. She dashed to her bed, her heart pummeling
her chest.

What
if the brigands took the ship? Anne darted to her smallest trunk and threw back
the lid. She pulled out an ornate wooden box and opened the hasp, then dumped
the contents on the bed—her decree of marriage and the few precious jewels she
owned. Using her fingernail to locate the string hidden in a groove, she pulled
away the false bottom. Pushing aside the shillings, she stared at the ivory
handle and slim blade of her father’s dagger.

The
cannon volley reverberated through the ship. The acrid smell of sulfur wafted
into her chamber. Anne’s stare shot to the ceiling. Feet pounded the floor
above. Men screamed in agony.

She
folded the marriage decree and replaced the false bottom, then shoved her
precious keepsakes on top and stuffed it under her mattress. Jumping at an explosion
that sounded like a cannonball crashing through the deck, Anne snatched up her knife
and crouched upon the corner of her bed. Her gaze fixed on door, her
seasickness replaced by uncontrollable trembling as the battle raged around
her.

Surely I will die this eve. Dear
God, have mercy on my soul.

***

The
unending night wore on with sounds of battle that Anne had only heard tale of, tucked
away in Titchfield House. How she wanted to be back there now, in the arms of her
sisters and Hanna.

When
the echoes of fighting stopped, an eerie hush filled her chamber. Anne sat up,
gooseflesh rising on her arms. The knife in her hand slipped against her perspiration
and she tightened her grip.

Footsteps
plodded down the wooden planks of the corridor. They stopped outside her door.
The latch moved. Anne did not mistake the hiss of a sword being drawn from its
scabbard. She drew in a ragged breath.

Something
slammed into the door. Her heart flew to her throat. Another thud. Anne pressed
her shoulders into the corner and steadied her knife. The door bowed and
groaned against a clashing blow. Hinges gave way and the door clattered to the deck.

A
rugged man stared through the dimly lit doorway. Sword drawn, with a cropped
copper beard, he glared at her with fierce, steely eyes. She was certain he
could kill her with that look.

Anne
held up her knife, shaking like a sapling in the wind.

“Holy
Mother Mary.” He clattered across the door and sheathed his sword. “What in the
blazes are ye doing here?”

She
clasped her free hand over her knife to steady the trembling.

His
shirt splattered with blood, his face dark, he took another step toward her,
holding her gaze. “I’ll no’ hurt ye, lass.”

Anne
tried to push herself deeper into the corner, but the walls trapped her. He moved
closer, his eyes searing into hers. She glanced beyond him, breaking his stare.
His powerful legs strained against his red plaid kilt with one more step. Over
the scents of sweat and blood, she caught the whiff of rosemary.

“What
is yer name?”

Name? What should I say?
“A-Anne.”

“Just
Anne?”

She
pursed her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing her true
identity.

“We-ell
you’re no’ Anne Boleyn, that’s a certainty. She’s dead and her daughter’s on
the throne.” His eyes glanced to the dagger trembling in her hand. “Ye think ye
can take the likes of me with that wee knife?”

He
towered over her little bed and Anne craned her neck. Her stomach squeezed. Those
piercing eyes stared down at her from shoulders as broad as her largest trunk.
He held out his hand. “Now be a good lass and give it to me.”

She
licked her lips and stared at the blood staining his outstretched hand. Anne
could
not
surrender without a fight. Gritting
her teeth, she launched herself forward, aiming the dagger at his heart.

He
snatched her wrist faster than she could blink.

A
sharp pain wrenched her wrist and the knife dropped to the floor. The Highlander
shoved her back onto the bed and shook his head. “Now what did ye have to go
and do that for? I told ye to hand it over.” He bent down and picked up the
blade, turning it over in his hand appreciatively. “If you’re going to be
hostile, I guess I’ll have to put it in me sporran for safekeeping.”

She
glanced down to the white fur pouch he wore across the front of his kilt, watching
as he slid her father’s dagger inside. “W-what did you do with Captain Fortescue?”

“The
former captain of
this
ship?” The
Scot patted his sporran as if the pelt were ermine. “I’m afraid he’s on a wee
boat headed back to shore.”

“Of
all the lawlessness. You mean to say that you tossed him overboard in a skiff?”

“Aye.
At least I didna kill the bastard. He was a darned bit ornery ’bout it too.”

“You
say that as if pillaging and casting the captain overboard was a minor
inconvenience.”

A
shadow darkened his face. “Oh no, ’twas not minor at all.”

Anne
stiffened her back. All her life she’d heard “my lady” when addressed, but
then, she hadn’t informed him of her title.

“Actually,
you’re
the inconvenience.”

“Me?”

His
finger twitched across the hilt of the gargantuan sword strapped to his hip. “Ye
see, we’ve launched the skiffs and I’m at a loss as to what we should do with
ye.”

Anne’s
mouth grew dry. Would he make her walk the plank? Would he take her to the hold
and tie her down to be gnawed to death by the ship’s rats? A clammy chill swept
over her skin. Surely, he would respect her virtue…wouldn’t he? “I-if you
return me to Portsmouth, I should be able to find my way home.” She most
assuredly was not going to continue on toward Alnwick or the baron.

“Portsmouth,
aye?” He took a seat at the end of her bed, putting Anne at eyelevel. “You
would have us sail back into the mouth of the dragon herself, would ye?” He
threw his head back and gave a hearty laugh, unlike someone bent on murder.
“Nay. Ye will have to stay with us unsavory privateers for a wee bit longer.”

Anne
clutched her dressing gown tighter around her neck.
Privateers? He’s a filthy pirate and a devilish one at that.

A
tall man in a dark green and blue kilt appeared in the doorway and spoke in a
foreign tongue.
Gaelic
. She knew a
little Gaelic. His eyes drifted to Anne and back to her captor, who responded
in the same guttural tones—
they’re
talking about me
. The pirate’s gaze softened when he turned to her. “John
will see yer door is repaired.” He surveyed trunks that lined her wall. “I
suppose all of these are yers?”

There
rested the entirety of possessions. “Yes.”

“It
looks like ye were planning to stay—wherever ye were going.”

Anne
stared at her hands and whispered, “Yes.”

The
scent of rosemary grew stronger when the Highlander leaned in and eyed her. His
rough fingers brushed a bronze brooch that clasped his plaid at his shoulder.
“I take it ye weren’t too happy ’bout it.”

Anne
chose not to reply to the gentle tone in his voice. Her happiness was none of
his concern, though in truth this diversion postponed wedded bliss with her
antiquated baron.

“Either
way. Ye’ll be delayed for a bit.”

He
headed toward the doorway, and she reached out a trembling hand. “Wait.”

He
stopped.

“Where
are you taking me?”

“Northwest.”

Of
course he wouldn’t be specific. “What should I call you?”

He
turned, his powerful frame outlined in the doorway by flickering firelight from
above. Those blue eyes as fierce as they had looked when he first knocked down
the door. “Captain.”

Dear God in heaven, praises to you
that Hanna was not forced to endure this nightmare
.

Anne
slipped back into her corner and clutched the pillow while he walked over the
door and clomped though the corridor. The pirate did not have the decency to
tell her his name. But then, she hadn’t been exactly forthcoming about hers
either.

What
was she to do until her door was repaired? She tossed the pillow aside, and
levered the door back into place. Using all her strength, she pushed and shoved
one of her trunks until it blocked the entry. It wasn’t ideal, but would
suffice to hold through the night. At least the racket would wake her if anyone
tried to enter.

Calum
pushed through to the captain’s cabin and turned full circle. The English
hadn’t spared any expense on this new ship. A row of five leaded glass windows
looked over the ship’s bow. In the center of the room stood a walnut table with
six chairs upholstered in red with gold embroidery. A desk sat starboard with a
thick leather-bound log atop. Port side, a bed hugged the dark paneling to hold
firm during rough seas. Brass oil-burning lamps hung from the rafters to
provide maximum light.

Calum
strolled to the aft windows and peered through one of the small glass panes.
The sun touched the eastern horizon in violets and pinks. Soon they’d turn
north for the journey home, but first they must make a wide berth around
English waters. Once the captain and crew were found, there would be
retribution. Of that he had no doubt.

He
rubbed his eyes, unable to remember when he’d last slept. But sleep didn’t
matter. He had secured the galleon, and its bounty would supply his people for
months to come. The manifest of the cargo contained more than he’d dreamed with
food aplenty, sheep, ponies and milking heifers, as well as fine cloth and a
cache of hardwood for building.

The
only thing he hadn’t counted on was Anne, a beautiful woman, truth be told. Expecting
another fight, he’d nearly hurtled into her room and started swinging. Never
before had a woman stopped him cold, but those almond-shaped eyes shone cobalt
blue, just like the sky in the hour before night falls.

She’d
looked fierce as a baby badger crouched in the corner of her bed holding that
ridiculous knife—it was nearly too small to be called a dagger.

Wrapped
in a red dressing gown, her honey-blonde mane had partly shrouded her face and
cascaded all the way down to her enticing hips. Calum hadn’t been able to stop
himself from mentally undressing her in that moment. Her hair draped across one
eye gave her the appearance of a woman ready to be bedded. Fortunately, he’d
recovered his wits when she tried to attack.

Calum
chuckled.

He
needed only to look at the collection of trunks to know she was a lady of
stature, and her accent had confirmed it. He groaned. Plundering a ship was one
thing, but plundering a ship and kidnapping a highborn lady would buy him more
trouble than he cared to bargain for.
Anne
.
He must find out who she was so he could ransom her, and fast. A beautiful
woman amongst his men would cause mayhem.

At
a rap on the door, Calum turned. John entered holding the manifest. “All
accounted for, m’laird.”

“Excellent.
And the lady’s door?”

“The
carpenters are working on it now.”

“Very
good.”

John
placed the paperwork on the table. “Who is the woman?”

“She
would only say that her name is Anne. But she’s English nobility, there’s no
question.”

“Have
you checked the captain’s log?”

Calum
strode to the ornate desk and opened the large volume, thumbing the pages until
he found the last entry.
25
^th
March, Year of our Lord 1559. Set sail mid-afternoon. One passenger, Lady Anne,
daughter of Lord Southampton, destination the River Aln. Clouds rolling in from
the west. Rain likely.

John
peered over his shoulder. “Southampton—he’s an earl, no?”

“He’s
a dead earl. I think his heir’s but a child.”

Calum
pulled out the map of England and rolled it open on the table. “She’s headed
toward the River Aln.” He ran his finger along the east coast until he found
the said river and found the closest town. “Alnwick.”

“The
seat of the Earl of Northumberland,” John said.

“The
plundering bastard and his murdering sheriff, the Baron of Wharton.”

John
leaned in and studied the map. “Ye wouldn’t think she’d be tied up with the
likes of them?”

“And
why not? Her da’s an earl.”

“Bloody
hell. The last thing we need is Wharton and his henchman bearing down on us.”

“’Tis
a good thing our plaid looks like the Stewart’s. That’ll confuse the English
until we can arrange terms for her ransom.” Calum rolled up the map. “I’ll have
Lady Anne dine with me tonight to see what more I can pull from her.”

John
waggled his eyebrows. “Aye, and feast yer eyes no doubt.”

“Don’t
let your shameless mind consider it. If she weren’t worth a farthing, I’d
bloody well throw her arse over the side of the ship.”

“Aye,
Laird Calum, Robin Hood of Raasay—always willing to drown a lady in distress.”

“She’s
no lady to me. Be gone with ye.”

Calum
turned his back and closed his eyes. His palms perspired as he pictured the
voluptuous Lady Anne, her full red lips trembling—undeniably kissable lips. He
rubbed his palms against his plaid. Surely she would not be as alluring once
she’d donned a proper gown and headpiece.

***

Anne
stared at the door with its new hinges—and a lock she could not turn as before.
Now a prisoner, she paced the room still wearing her shift and dressing gown. The
night had been endless and carried on into a day trapped within. She’d heard
about Scottish pirates who preyed on Her Majesty’s ships. Even one of her family’s
cargoes of grain had been plundered by pirates. Whether it had been Scots or
not, no one knew, but pirates were a thorn in England’s side, not only to the
crown but to every landowner who shipped their goods abroad.

At
the time, she’d reported the incident to the Privy Council and they assigned
Captain Hawkins to the task.
Hawkins
.
He was a known pirate himself.

Anne
balled her fists. The business of running her family’s estates was no longer
her concern. She needed to find a way off this ship and back to her family. No—her
mother had made clear, she must honor the contract of marriage. She must find a
way to her husband. Thomas Wharton had earned his barony by his shrewd talent
for law enforcement. Once the baron learned that his new wife had been captured
by Scottish pirates, he would surely not rest until the savages were brought to
justice.

Aside
from being much older, Anne knew little of her new husband, but one thing was certain—he
hated the Scots. News of his raids into Scotland had even reached Titchfield
House.

Her
door opened with a light tap. “Excuse me, milady. The captain would like ye to
dine with him this evening.” John, the second-in-charge, who’d repaired her
door, wore a green and blue plaid opposed to the red and black the captain and
the cabin boy who’d brought her food had worn.

Anne
lifted her chin. “I would prefer to take my meals in my stateroom.”

“
Trom féineil nighneag
,” he cursed under
his breath.

“Pardon
me, but I am neither selfish nor burdensome.”

Anne
enjoyed watching the shocked bulge to John’s eyes when she translated his
Gaelic. He fumbled with the latch. “I’ll be back to escort ye to the captain in
an hour. I’d think with all these trunks ye would have more than a dressing
gown to wear over yer shift.”

He
closed the door and the lock clicked.

Anne
rushed forward and jerked on the handle.
Blast
them for caging me like I’m the one they cannot trust
. When the pirate had first
kicked in the door and entered her room, she’d been terrified, afraid he would
kill her—a big man with a big sword, splattered with blood. Well, she knew
differently now. The captain wanted to dine with her?
Fine
. She would use his misplaced hospitality to uncover more about
him. Any information she could gather would assist Lord Wharton to capture the plunderer
and his men.

She
would dress the part for this
meal
. If
the captain saw her in a gold silk gown—fabric reserved only for baronesses and
above—he’d think twice about taking her back to Portsmouth.

It
took three times as long to dress without Hanna. Turning in front of the dingy
looking glass, Anne inspected her handiwork. All ribbons were tied, though
she’d had to lace up her stays in the front, but no strings stuck out. While
she secured the matching headpiece in place, a knock sounded.

“Yes?”

Opening
the door, John appraised her with a half-cocked smile. “Och. Looks like I’ll no’
have to strong arm ye to the captain’s cabin.”

“You
are brash, sir.” She stood as tall as her frame would allow. “I would still
prefer to dine in my quarters.”

“’Tis
fortunate ye’ve reconsidered.” He offered her the crook of his arm. “Ye look lovely.”

She
glanced to the mirror and caught a rosy flush crawling up her face. “I presume
you’re expecting me to thank you.”

“A
lady generally does when a gentleman pays her a compliment.”

“So
you’re a gentleman now that you’ve pillaged the ship?”

She
placed her hand on the elbow he’d offered and inclined her head toward the
door.

“We’re
no’ as bad as ye think.”

John
ushered her into the captain’s quarters, lavishly inlaid with the rich warmth
of walnut wood. The captain stood with his back to them, staring out the windows
behind the table, elegantly set for two. He’d tied back his dark auburn hair
and wore a clean linen shirt. Anne had forgotten how enormous he was—his broad
shoulders tapered down to his waist, supported by slim hips beneath his red and
black plaid.

John
bowed. “Her ladyship, m’laird.”

The
captain turned. Anne’s breath caught. He’d cleaned the soot and blood from his
face, but his eyes still bore through her like an arrow. She scarcely heard the
door close behind her. He approached, his frown replaced by a smile, displaying
a row of perfectly straight teeth.

Anne
forced herself to breathe. She wanted the dirty face with the scowl back—it was
easier to detest
that
pirate.

“Thank
ye for coming, milady.”

Anne’s
hands trembled as he neared. No man had ever made her hands shake like that.
She clenched her fists to stop the tremors. “My lady?” she asked. “I did not
tell you I was nobly born.”

“Nay,
but the captain’s log did.”

The log?
“Oh? And what did Captain Fortescue note about me?”

Anne
could not ignore how his muscles stretched his hose when he sauntered to the
sideboard and poured two goblets of wine. “Ye can read it there on the desk if
ye like, but he said you’re the daughter of Southampton, bound for the River
Aln.”

“I
see.” She walked over to the bound volume smoothed her hands down the coarse
velum. The entry made no mention of her marriage by proxy.
Interesting
.

He
handed her the goblet. “Wine?”

She
looked him in the eye and her heart stuttered. Gold flecks danced around rims
of blue. She snapped her gaze to the goblet. “Thank you.”

He
pulled out a chair. “Please, sit. I trust ye have been treated well since our
last...ah…encounter?”

She
stepped toward him and ignored the chair. She caught the familiar bouquet of
rosemary soap, though not mixed with blood and sweat this time. “If you call
locking me in my stateroom good treatment, then yes.”

The
narrowing of his eyes reflected annoyance, but he politely bowed and gestured
for her to sit. “Apologies. Your confinement was more for yer sake than to keep
ye imprisoned.”

When
he helped her push in her chair, his hand brushed her shoulder. A tingle
trickled down Anne’s spine, though she suppressed her gasp. Her gaze drifted to
his hand—large, strong, sprinkled with coppery hair. He was quite unlike what
she’d imagined for a pirate captain.

He
took his seat at the head of the table—a foot away, close enough for her to
touch him. He smiled again, white teeth, fetching as the devil.

She
studied the silver salt cellar and nervously tapped it to the exact center of
the table.
Why does he have to be
wickedly handsome?
On the few times Anne had been to court, there had been
good looking men, but none so imposing as the captain. He had lines at the
corners of his gold flecked blue eyes, as if he often squinted directly into
the bright sun. His nose was not subtle, but the size and slight hook to it
suited him. The nose alone announced this was not a man to trifle with. And his
hands…They were large and powerful, but the nails were now clean and neatly
trimmed, and in his hands, an elegant brass goblet was held utterly secure.

Her
gaze trailed down to the laces of his shirt and tight heat coiled deep inside
when she spied the auburn curls peeking just above his neckline. For no reason
at all, she had an urge to touch him—to discover if those curls were as downy
soft as they looked.

“Is
my appearance displeasing?”

“N-no.”
Anne glanced behind her, hoping the food would come soon so this meal would be
over and she could escape back to her chamber.

“I
will see to it ye have leave to walk the deck.”