Captured by the Pirate Laird (4 page)

“Calum.”
Anne spoke aloud, the L rolled off her tongue as she hummed the M. She liked
the sound of it.

Would
Thomas see him hanged? She pictured Calum’s powerful neck swinging in a noose
and nearly wretched. A stream of cold sweat slid down her forehead.

Lord
Wharton washed his breakfast down with a draught of cider, feeling giddy for
the first time in…well the first time ever. Any day now, the ship should arrive
with Lady Anne, his new bride. He rubbed his fingers in a circular pattern across
his palm, imagining her young flesh. He had worked hard all his life. He
deserved this. Yes, he’d put on a stone or two and his body didn’t respond as
quickly. But Lady Anne would grow to accept him. After all, she had been
cloistered in her father’s estate. Her uncle had assured him that she knew
nothing of men. A welcomed thickness spread across his groin. Having raised a
family himself, he was the perfect man to show the sweet virgin a wife’s place.

Of
course, he would have preferred to take Lady Anne to his estate in Healaugh,
but momentarily he was engaged with the Earl of Northumberland as warden of the
region. The earl had given him use of the manor on the castle grounds as part
of his service. It had been the earl’s idea to marry by proxy and have Anne
sail to the River Aln. When she arrived, the Lord Percy would host a feast to
honor the Baron of Wharton and his new baroness.

Though
the manor was nowhere near as grand as Alnwick Castle, it was solidly built—a
fortress in itself, a home in which any baroness would be proud, even the second
daughter of an earl.

His
manservant, Samuel, leaned down to pick up his tray. “Will that be all, my
lord?”

“Leave
the ewer.” Thomas looked at him with a twist to his gut. “Any word of the
Flying Swan?
”

“Not
yet, my lord. I could send a messenger.”

“No.
The lookout will come when she’s spotted.”

“Very
well, my lord.”

Thomas
waved the man away with a flick of his wrist and belched. Since he had returned
from London five months ago, he’d been absorbed with negotiating the terms of
his marriage. He would never forget watching Lady Anne from across the aisle at
Westminster Abbey. She stirred a longing deep within, a feeling he’d not
experienced since his years as a young man when he courted his first wife,
Eleanor.
God rest her soul
.

Wharton
had patiently waited until the crowd dispersed and then introduced himself. Lady
Anne had looked past him when he kissed her hand. He expected that. After all,
he was nearly three times her age.
Young
women always think they want to fall in love with a younger, less experienced
man. What they need is a learned man, aged by war and time, to guide them
through the complexities of life.

He
poured one more goblet of cider and gazed out the window. Dora skipped into
view carrying a bucket of chicken feed. His tongue shot to the corner of his
mouth when the wind picked up the servant’s golden hair from under her white
coif. It was the color of Lady Anne’s. Wharton rubbed his hand across his
crotch. Dora smelled a bit too strongly of tallow, even when naked, and though
she meandered beyond the glass, he could smell it. Perhaps her scent lingered
from last night’s interlude.

A
rap on his door brought him back to the moment. “Come.”

Samuel
stepped inside and presented a missive on a silver platter. “From Captain
Fortescue, my lord.”

“Fortescue?
It must have been dispatched before the ship sailed. Odd.” He slipped his thumb
under the wax seal and read. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow,
but the thickness stuck there along with the cider, turning to fire his belly.

He
slammed the missive on the table and glared at the weathered face of his
servant. “Where is the messenger who brought this?”

“I
sent him to the kitchen, my lord.”

“Bring
him to me at once, and fetch Master Denton.”

“Yes,
my lord.”

The
table upended when Wharton pushed away. He growled and kicked the heavy thing
aside with his heel. Grinding his back molars against the pain, he paced. His
mind raced through the half-dozen people who knew of his marriage. He’d kept it
quiet. Had a missive been intercepted? Where was Lady Anne? He’d fled Wharton
Hall because of enemies hell bent on destroying him. Now they had pillaged the
ship and the only soul not accounted for was his wife?

A
young man appeared in the doorway, holding his cap. “You wanted to see me, my
lord?”

Thomas
whipped around. “You delivered the missive?”

“Yes.”

“How
was it handed to you?”

“I
am Captain Fortescue’s First Mate. I watched him pen the letter and seal it.”

“Did
anyone else read it?”

“No,
my lord. Fortescue directed me to deliver it with haste.”

“You
were on the ship when it was attacked?”

“Yes.”

“What
happened?”

“We
sailed into a squall. The night was black and the carrack dark. We didn’t see
her until she was crossing our bow flying the Jolly Roger.”

“Pirates,”
Thomas said, thinking aloud. “Spaniards? Dutch?”

“Scots.”

The
baron’s full belly churned, threatening to heave. With a rolling belch, he swallowed.
The Scots—his fiercest enemies. “I knew it. Those murdering bastards will never
rest. England will not be at peace until every last one of them is dead and
their seed is snuffed out forever.”

The
boy nodded, his mouth drawn in a frown. Wharton wanted to slam his fist into his
young face. “How could you lose my wife? Where is she, damn you?”

He
stammered. “My lord?”

“What
has Fortescue done to…” He clenched his fists and shook them. “Get. Her. Back?”

“He’s
gone to London, sir—reported it to the Royal Navy. Th-the queen is very upset
indeed.”

Wharton
paced the parlor.
Imbeciles
. On his
third trip past the incompetent first mate, he shoved his finger in the man’s
sternum and shouted, “I trusted you and your crew to bring her to me safely.
Now all are accounted for
except
my baroness?”

The
young man backed a step. “Yes, my lord.”

Wharton
glared at him—the young face of ineptitude. “Get out,” he roared. “Be gone, or you’ll
feel the cold steel of my sword.” Wharton grasped the hilt and yanked the
cutlass from his scabbard while the man fled.

I should have been there. If I had
traveled to Southampton to fetch her, none of this would have happened. I
should have never relied on someone else. Scottish barbarians? Only I know how
to quash the miserable Scots—Fortescue would have been beat before the battle
began.

The
lean figure of Master Denton appeared in the passageway. His eyes drifted down
to the sword in Wharton’s hand, and he brushed his fingers across his own hilt.
“You sent for me, my lord?”

Wharton
eyed his henchman and shoved the sword back in its scabbard. Though Master
Denton had always been a most loyal and trusted servant, his appearance gave
Thomas pause. With hair black as coal framing his gaunt face, Denton looked
like an executioner. Wharton half expected him to carry a headsman’s axe. Tall,
lanky, the man’s black eyes appeared to have no capacity for sympathy, and
that’s how Thomas wanted it. Never had he seen Master Denton look at a woman,
or a woman look his way for that matter.

“Scottish
pirates plundered Lady Anne’s ship. It appears they have taken her prisoner.”
He looked away and lowered his voice. “Or worse.”

“The
Scots again?” If Denton had felt any remorse for the baroness he didn’t show
it.

“I
want you to go to Portsmouth. Find out everything you can. Were there Scots
hanging about the pubs before the
Flying
Swan
sailed? What colors did they wear?”

Denton
nodded.

Thomas
lunged in and jutted his face under Denton’s nose. “I want that pirate
captain’s head.”

“Understood.”

“And
you can give Fortescue a taste of my dissatisfaction while you’re at it.”

The
corner of Denton’s mouth twitched. “I’ll see it done.”

“Good.
Leave now. I want word dispatched within the fortnight.”

Wharton
stepped to the window and watched Denton trot through the gates on his black
steed. If anyone could drudge up information from the back alleyways of a
dockyard, it was he.

Sickly
dread stabbed Thomas in the gut. He envisioned a pirate with his kilt hiked up
around his hips forcing his maiden bride. It blinded him with rage. He wanted
to know who this pirate was, damn it. His fists clenched.
When I uncover his identity, he will rue the day he was born. And if he
defiles my wife, I’ll make the rutting bastard gag on her blood before I carve
out his bowels and hang him.

***

Anne
clutched the bedclothes under her chin. The air had turned markedly colder on
their voyage north. She’d heard about the bone-chilling wind from the North
Sea. Now March thirtieth, she expected a bit more warmth, but the gooseflesh on
her skin hinted that it might even snow. She shivered.

She
wished she could pull up her feather duvet and go back to sleep, but that
luxury remained behind, still covering her bed at Titchfield House. From the
hurried footsteps clamoring above, she could tell that the morning’s work had
begun. The anxious voices told her this wasn’t just any morning and curiosity
took hold. She threw back the bedclothes and wrapped her woolen dressing gown
around her shift.

Footsteps
clomped down the corridor followed by a tap on her door. “Time to break yer
fast, milady.”

“Come
in.”

The
tray jostled in Bran’s hands, reflecting his excitement. “We’re rounding
Trotternish on the Isle of Skye. We’ll see Rona and then Raasay within the
hour.”

Anne
settled her hand on the boy’s brown curls. He reminded her of her brother,
Henry, but there was a world of difference between the two. Henry had succeeded
her father as Earl of Southampton, and Bran stood on gawky legs in a moth-eaten
kilt, his face caked with dirt and sea salt. He looked happy as a puppy, but he
wasn’t wearing his sling. “How is your arm?”

He
stretched out his hand and jiggled his fingers. “All healed, milady. Yer
ointment fixed me up like new.”

“I
still want you to be careful for at least another week.” Anne pushed up his
sleeve and examined his arm for bruising. The swelling had gone down and the purple
was fading into an ugly yellow—an unattractive, but sure sign of recovery. “Are
you excited to return home?”

“Aye,
milady. It’s been a harsh winter and the clan’s starving.” He straightened the
plaid across his shoulder and looked up with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I
cannot wait to see the look on me ma’s face when she sees the
Flying Swan
and her cargo.”

Anne
wanted to share in Bran’s excitement, but these were stolen goods. Arriving in
Raasay filled her with the same trepidation as the thought of arriving at
Alnwick. What would Calum do with her once they arrived? Would she be safe?
Would they take her trunks and divvy out her clothing amongst the heathens?

After
she’d eaten and dressed in her most modest gown—a woolen frock that showed as
little cleavage as possible, she pulled a cloak around her shoulders and
ventured out to the main deck. The brisk wind cut through her multiple layers
of clothing, took hold of her silk veil and snatched the coronet off her head.
With a squeal, she chased after it. The headpiece was amongst her favorite and
seemed to grow a mind of its own, spiraling across the deck like a blue rogue
sail.

A
large hand reached out and stopped the coronet before it flew over the rail and
into the sea. Anne’s eyes trailed up the arm to a pair of broad shoulders.
Calum wore his dark auburn hair loose. It shimmered with copper as the wind tossed
stray strands across his face. White teeth flashing with his grin, he pushed his
hair aside.

The
wind swirled in puffs across Anne’s skin, leaving a tingle behind. She reached
for the rail to steady herself. Calum had shaved his beard. If anything, his smooth,
square jaw brought more prominence to his raw masculinity. She wished she could
reach out and brush her fingers across his unblemished skin.

Why
did he have to be so rakishly good looking? Curses, every time she looked at
him, he seemed more handsome than the last. Her heart fluttered. She clasped
her hand over it to quash her reaction.

He
clutched her coronet with both hands. Anne took a step toward him and blinked
rapidly, the heat of her cheeks being the only warmth she’d felt that morning.
She broke the tension by glancing down at her wayward headdress and held out
her hand.

He
casually handed it to her. “’Tis a bit too dainty for a ship’s deck. Ye need a
woolen bonnet in these waters.”

“Unfortunately,
I didn’t anticipate a detour to the Hebrides when I packed.”

He
leaned against the rail with a hand on his hip. “We mean ye no harm.”

“No?”
Anne rubbed her upper arms. “And just how long will I suffer your
hospitality?
”