Captured by the Pirate Laird (12 page)

Calum
sprang to his feet. “Are ye in pain?”

Anne
forced a smile. “No. I’m sorry. I was just thinking how difficult it will be
when it comes time for me to leave.” She shook her head. “Isn’t that daft? Here
I’m your prisoner and I am ever so enjoying learning about life in the far
reaches of Scotland. You must think me a fool.”

Calum
resumed his seat and grasped her hand. “Nay, milady. It has been very pleasant
to have ye here. Everyone thinks so.”

“Aside
from Norman.”

“Aye,
well perhaps no’ me brother, but he’ll come around.”

“Probably
not before I leave.” Anne returned her attention to the fledgling and reached
her hand into the cage. “Come here, darling. You’ll feel safer if you nestle
with me.” She cupped the baby raptor to her bosom and Calum watched her with a
faraway glint to his eye. “Would you be able to bring his food, please? I’d
like to give it to him and start the bond.”

In
no time, Calum returned with the soupy meat mixture, and Anne ladled it into
Swan’s mouth with her fingernail.

“’Tis
a bit tedious.”

“Yes,
but I’ve nothing better to do.” She cradled the bird like a babe. “And he needs
a gentle hand to care for him.” When she stopped feeding the bird, Swan gave
her a peck on the wrist. Anne jerked her hand away. “He’s nearly ready to eat
on his own this one—almost drew blood.”

“Perhaps
ye should wear falconing gloves.” Calum leaned in and examined her hand. He
rubbed the spot where Swan had nipped her then held it to his lips. “I never
want to see ye hurt again, milady.”

Their
stares connected and held. He cared. The swelling in Anne’s heart could not
possibly be love. But this man had come to mean so much to her. How had she let
that happen? She ached to bring Calum’s head to her breast and hold it there
too. And though Swan settled into the crook of her arm and slept, she wanted
more from Calum. Riding back to Brochel, he’d held her in his arms and she
never had really lost consciousness. It felt heavenly to be surrounded by his
powerful frame. She’d closed her eyes and wished she could stay there forever.

Anne
clamped her fists to her head when the hole in her heart jerked her back to her
plight. The daughter of the Earl of Southampton do as she pleased? Never. Her
life had never been hers and never would be.

Mara
entered the chamber with a goblet. “I have the draught the friar prepared.”

“Must
I drink it?”

Calum
reached out and grasped her hand. “It will help ye sleep.”

Anne
closed her eyes—her life would be hers in this moment. “Set it beside the bed.
I shall take it when I’m ready to sleep.”

Mara
pursed her lips, but did as Anne asked.

“Thank
you.” It was a small win, but one she needed.

Calum
stayed beside her bed. In the chamber where no one watched, he was tender and
gentle. Anne saw none of the hardened pirate who sparred with his men every
morning and plundered ships to bring back food for his people. Next to her was
a strong man with crystal blue eyes that looked at her as if she were the most
beautiful woman on earth. She would take this moment and lock it in her heart
for all eternity.

For
a moment, Calum wondered if he’d gone to heaven during the night, but when he
opened his eye, Anne was singing. He listened to her sweet, bell-like voice.
She reached for a high note and hit it with such clarity, the back of his neck
tingled.

Rolling
to his side, he pulled a pillow over his head. Did she have to sing like an
angel too? He knew he’d spent far too long beside her bed last night. Mother
Mary, the reaction he’d had when she fell was not normal, no matter how he
rationalized it. How had he allowed himself to become enraptured with the baroness?
Lady Anne had bewitched him with her charm.

Calum
dressed, berating himself for lusting after his prisoner. What kind of low
beasty man did that make him?

He
had to get away from the keep. It was time he paid a visit to
The Golden Sun
.

After
Calum rowed out to the ship, Norman stood with his fists on his hips and
watched him climb aboard. “Come to visit me in exile?”

“Come
to see the progress ye’ve made on the rebuilding, little brother,” Calum
grumbled.

Norman
swept his arm and gestured across the deck. “Behold. The damage from the cannon
blasts has been fully repaired.”

Calum
walked over and stomped on the new decking. It held fast. “You’re a good hand
when yer sober.”

“Aye?
I’ve been thinking about that a bit.”

“Oh?”

“The
first few nights on the ship, I drank everything in sight. One morning Robert
came aboard while I puked me guts over the rail.”

“That’s
a common enough sight.”

“It’s
no’ the fact he saw that got me riled. It’s what he mumbled under his breath.”
Norman’s hands fell to his side. “He said every family’s got to have a
parasite—a failure.”

Calum
reached out his hand, but Norman batted it away. “No. I dunna need yer sympathy.
Since that day, me lips haven’t touched a dram of whisky and I’ll be damned if
they ever will again.” Norman looked him in the eye. “I dunna like the man I become
when I drink, and neither does anyone else.”

Blinking,
Calum forced back the sting rimming his eyes. He hadn’t shed a tear since he
was a babe and he wasn’t about to now. “’Tis good to hear.” Everywhere he
looked, he saw signs of repairs. “And with what ye’ve achieved, I imagine ye’ll
make a fine sea captain.”

Norman
nodded toward the captain’s cabin. “Come, I want to show ye something.”

Calum
stepped inside and noted the MacLeod tartan covering the bed—a fine improvement
over the English quilt. A drawing on the table caught his eye. He lifted it and
studied the artwork. “This is remarkable.” Norman had sketched the ship with
its new additions.

“Do
ye like the lettering for
The Golden Sun
?”

“Aye.
I think ye missed yer calling. Ye should have been an artist.”

“Baa.
But Robert says ’tis easier to work with me prints than with the original
drawings.”

“I’ll
have to remember that.”

“So
what news have you?”

Calum
set the drawing on the table. “We’ve finished the work on the chamber beside
mine.”

Norman
ran his finger along his plaid. “I suppose ye had to fashion a place to
sleep—so the lady’s still here?”

“Aye.”

“The
sooner we’re rid of her, the better.”

The
hackles on the back of Calum’s neck pricked. “Ye ken, she could have acted like
a spoiled heiress and hidden in me chamber, but no, she’s worked with Mara and
the children. The keep has never looked so fine with everything in its place. She’s
organized the women too, and there’s no more bellyaching.”

“Listen
to yerself speak. Ye defend her like she’s yer missus.” Norman threw his hands
up. “She embodies our vilest enemy.”

Calum
clenched his fist and pulled it back. Norman flinched. Hell. He didn’t want to
hit him, but Norman’s words struck a chord. Worse, Calum knew he was right.
He’d ask Lady Anne to marry him on the morrow if she weren’t already wed. Calum
dropped his hand and stretched his fingers. “I worry about what this ransom
business will bring on our heads. But John will return and the lady will be
gone soon enough.”

“That
will be a blessing.”

Calum
raised his chin. “Until then, I expect ye to treat her with respect—if and when
ye see her.”

Norman
gave an exaggerated bow. “Aye, yer lairdship.”

***

John
Urquhart sat in the shadows of the Sheep Heid Inn and nursed a tankard of ale.
His uncle, Sir Tomas, had recommended Malcolm Elliot, but John felt uneasy
trusting a Lowlander to deliver the missive. The man had never looked at him
straight in the eye. John hated trusting such a man.

If
he’d had it his way, John would have delivered the missive himself. He could
have played the part of an Englishman, and Calum knew it. John loved Calum like
a brother, but the laird’s only weakness was his love for his people and
reluctance to risk their lives.

Calum
didn’t want John riding into England because of the danger. Now he’d been
waiting for Elliot’s return for a week. If he didn’t come soon, the galley John
had waiting in the Firth of Forth would set sail for Inverness without him.
Then he’d be in Edinburgh with no plan for a quick escape. That was every bit
as dangerous as riding into Wharton’s lair and playacting the part of a country
messenger.

A
buxom barmaid brushed up against him. “Ye’ve been holding up here for days.
What do ye say ye take me up to yer room and I’ll ease the tension under the
laces of your trews?”

He
nudged her away. “I’ve a bonny wife at home who keeps me fires warm. Run along,
wench.” John adjusted the damnable trews. He didn’t dare wear his colors in
Edinburgh, but he’d be mighty glad when he could throw off the itchy leather
trousers he’d been wearing since he arrived.

The
barmaid huffed away, clearing John’s view of the door.

He
sat erect.

Elliot’s
dark eyes stared at him from across the room. Eye contact. John knew something
was amiss. He reached under the table and slid the dirk from his belt.

John
stood and headed toward the back door, but Elliot raced up and caught him by
the arm. “Where are you going? I’ve a missive for you.”

Elliot
shoved the note into John’s gut and took off at a run.

The
door of the inn burst open and a heavyset man barreled through, aiming a musket
at John’s head. John dove under the table just as the slow match fired. Mayhem
erupted. Tables toppled to the shouts and screams of the patrons. John drew his
sword and fled toward the bar. The big man ran forward and slammed the gun
barrel into the wood within inches of John’s head.

He
ducked aside and rolled up over the top of the bar.

“What
have you done with my wife?”

Wharton
.

John
eyed the cowering bartender who inclined his head toward the back room. Wharton
drew his sword. John dashed into the room, praying he’d find a door.

Two
barmaids hovered in the corner, next to the servant’s entrance. Shoving a table
aside, John bolted for the rear door. His hand reached the knob when the table
scraped the floor behind him. John swung back, his blade hissing through the
air, but Wharton deflected the strike.

Wharton
lunged. John pulled the latch, and the two careened out into the alley. The
stench of rotten food and piss swamped John’s senses. Falling, his back jarred
against the cobblestones. Wharton’s bulk crushed atop him.

“Where
is she?” the baron growled.

John
wrenched his arm free and slammed his dirk into Wharton’s shoulder. The big man
reeled back, squealing like a pig. Footsteps slapped the pavement.
Soldiers
. John slipped out from under
Wharton and jumped the fence, landing on a stone terrace. He scanned for his
options. Only one door—he pushed inside and ran across someone’s kitchen, then
the parlor. Servants squawked. John eyed the door opposite him. In three steps,
he crashed through it and dashed onto the street.

A
pony pulling a cart laden with barrels trotted past. John jumped onto it.

Over
his shoulder, the driver shouted, “You can’t do that. Get off, ye maggot.”

John
leapt over the barrels and pressed his dirk under the driver’s chin. “Take me
to the pier and I’ll spare ye. And if you’re fast about it I may even give ye
some coin.”

The
driver bobbed his head. John spotted a blanket stuffed at the back of the seat
and wrapped it over his shoulders and head.

He
took a chance and peered down the street behind. Foot soldiers crisscrossed the
lane, but they hadn’t spotted him. Not yet.

***

During
Anne’s confinement, Calum had a mews built in the garden—an aviary of quiet
solitude where Swan would feel safe. After three day’s rest, her headache had
eased. Anne’s ankle was nearly healed and she could step without limping, thank
heavens. If she showed any sign it still pained her, Friar Pat would have
restricted her to quarters for yet another unbearable three days.

Since
Bran had helped Calum find Swan, the lad would learn to train him and Bran met Anne
beside the mews. Anne slid her hand into the falconry glove and reached for the
leather jesses she’d secured around Swan’s ankles. The bird latched his claws
around her finger and she fed him a small piece of meat, humming her lullaby.

Wide-eyed,
Bran watched the bird. “He likes it.”

“Yes,
but you must sing to him. Your song is your call.” She ran her hand along
Swan’s back. “Do you know the Gaelic lullaby,
Sofi Linge Valdal
?”

“Aye,
what Highlander doesna, but I’m surprised ye do.”

“My
family’s falconer was Scottish born. ’Twas his falconry lullaby, and ’tis what
I’ve been singing to Swan.” Anne swallowed back her tears. She was already
attached to the eagle, blast it all.

“Why
so sad, milady?”

She
gave the bird another morsel. “When I leave, you’ll have to carry on with his
training.”

“Ye
need to teach me.”

“Yes.”
Anne’s whisper was barely audible. If she had to pick anyone on the island to
work with Swan, it would be Bran. He had a gentle and optimistic nature. “Come,
let’s see if he’s ready to fly.”

Bran
sang Anne’s lullaby with a clear tenor as they walked down to the beach. Anne’s
spirits soared. Bran would indeed make a good substitute. She fastened the
leash to Swan’s jesses. “Are you ready?”

Bran
studied the bird. “I think ye should ask
him
…Do
ye think he’s ready?”

“We’ll
find out.” One reason she wanted to train on the beach was the bird’s lead
wouldn’t catch in anything if he failed to fly. Swan’s wings had developed
enough he could glide down from her arm, but she would never forgive herself if
he got hurt during his first flying lesson.

She
held up her arm and looked at Bran. The boy grimaced as if something terrible
were about to happen. Anne laughed and tossed her hand to the wind. Swan
flapped his wings and squawked like an adolescent boy, but the breeze caught
his wings and he soared upward with Anne holding the ten foot lead.

“I
cannot believe it.” Bran ran beneath Swan’s flapping wings and watched the bird
with amazement.

Anne
sang the lullaby then Swan resumed his perch on her forearm.

“How’d
ye do that?”

“’Tis
the song. Associate it with food and he’ll come to it every time.”

Anne
let Swan fly a few more times and then cast her eyes to Bran. No matter how
much she wanted the eagle to be hers, she knew it was best for the bird if she
trained another to be his falconer.

“Swan
comes to the song, to you, because he associates you with food, but once he can
hunt his own prey, he’ll come to you because you represent his home. You will
be his lord, Bran, and he will feel safe with you.”

Anne
took off her glove and handed it to the boy. “You give it a try.”

***

By
the time a month passed, dark circles had taken up residence under Calum’s eyes
and Friar Pat kept trying to give him a tincture to “help with that digestive
problem.” The kindhearted holy man finally stopped needling when Calum told him
the problem was a wee bit lower than his gut.

Lady
Anne had become more irresistible by the day. The only thing keeping his temper
in check was his daily sparring session with his guard. At least he could work
off the tension he built during the night without drawing suspicion to his
misplaced yearnings.

The
rain stayed at bay for the Beltane Fire Festival and Calum’s spirits soared.
All candles and lamps in the castle had been snuffed and Calum would have the
honor of lighting the bonfire of fertility.

On
the beach, Calum supervised the men raising the maypole and the women adorned
the wreath of flowers that encircled it. Of all the holidays, this was his
favorite. The haddock had been running strong in the sound. They would feast on
good fish, mussels and crab.