Captured by the Pirate Laird (7 page)

They
stood across from each other with a line of men on one side and the women on
the other. The dancing had piqued the color in Anne’s cheeks and she looked as
fresh as dew, sparkling in the glory of a summer’s sunrise. She gazed across
the open space between them, her eyes alive with anticipation of yet another
dance with unfamiliar steps. There was no need for her to worry. He could guide
her through every footfall.

The
music began and Calum stepped forward, grasping her hands in his. By the
suppleness of her movement, he could tell that she’d been trained to follow a
man’s lead. She responded to every twist of his hand and turn of his foot as if
she could predict each move. He would expect the daughter of an earl to have
mastered grace and she followed well.

He
sashayed in a circle holding Anne’s hands. Her skirts tickled his calves.
Anne’s sapphire eyes slid up to meet his. He swallowed. It was time to return
to the line. His insides tightening, he didn’t want to release those rose petal
soft fingers, but the music demanded it.

Anne
again stood across from him. The music and step sequence forced them to move sideways.
He beheld another face, friendly, but not intoxicating like Anne’s. He locked
arms with Sarah. They spun in a circle—Anne circled with Adair behind him. Calum
wanted Anne’s hands back in his. He got his wish and her eyelashes fluttered
with her giggle.

This
time he grasped her possessively. He wanted her to himself and when they
sashayed, he could see no other face but hers. The music in his ears dimmed to
a low hum. His breath loud in his ears, he pulled her in for the spin and the
sweet bouquet of honeysuckle and woman flooded his senses. In that moment, time
stopped. He stood motionless and held Anne inches from his body, staring into
those eyes. She gazed back at him with an expectant fire.

Adair
tapped him on the shoulder. Calum begrudgingly released his grasp and turned to
Sarah. The music came flooding back. He glanced over his shoulder and watched
Anne as Adair whisked her in another circle. If only they could dance alone.

Calum
wished the fiddler could play a volta, then he would have an excuse to wrap his
arms around her without bringing attention to his deep-seated desires. But this
was not England, thank God. Calum picked up his feet and danced to the music of
his kinfolk. That’s how he wanted it. Seeing Anne’s face smiling up at him
while he took every care to swing her around the floor, filled him with desire
aplenty. Hell, if he danced a volta with her, he’d have to go down to the beach
and throw himself into the icy sea to cool off.

To
his surprise, when the music ended, Friar Pat tapped him on the shoulder. If it
had been anyone else but the kindhearted friar with his careworn face, Calum
would have told him to go jump in the bay, but he couldn’t very well say no.

Anne’s
eyes popped when she looked at his brown habit—fortunately the reformation
hadn’t reached the island. “’Tis good to see the people of Raasay have a
spiritual leader.”

The
friar took her hand and waggled his eyebrows. “Aye, milady. ’Tis a difficult
job indeed, bringing the word to a heathen like the laird.”

Calum
looked toward the heavens. The friar had obviously had a few too many pints of
ale and by his color, possibly a cup of whisky or two.

Nursing
a tankard, Norman watched Calum return. “Ye’ve got eyes for her.”

“What
the blazes are ye talking about?”

“Ye
like the sassenach wench.”

Calum’s
hand shot out and gripped Norman’s collar. He twisted it taught and muscled his
face to within a hand’s breadth. “Watch your mouth.” He released the shirt with
a shove.

The
wee blighter huffed, rubbing his neck.

What
business was it of Norman’s how he felt? Calum reached for the pitcher and
poured himself another drink. “John leaves on the morrow with a missive for her
husband.”

Norman
folded his arms. “’Tis no’ soon enough.”

Calum
took a long draw from his ale and slammed his tankard on the table. “Keep your
mind on yer own business, brother.”

Norman
shoved his chair back. “Her beauty has half the men in the room wanting to bed
her. She’s a temptress. She’s no’ meant for the likes of you.”

“Don’t
ye think I ken?” Calum scowled into his drink.
She’s no’ meant for the likes of Wharton either.

However,
Norman’s words struck a nerve. It seemed every man on Raasay wanted to dance
with the beautiful and refined English lass. When Anne finally returned to the
table, her coronet had been knocked from her head, her tresses hung loose around
her shoulders—she looked wild and wanton. She could seduce the Holy Father with
that wild mop of thick tresses flowing everywhere.

Calum
groaned.

“Are
you well, my lord?”

Calum
leaned back in his chair, his knees parted to the sides. “I’m fine, but it
seems ye’ve lost a piece of yer costume.”

Her
hands went to her head. “Oh dear. It fell off a dance or two ago.” She stood.
“I must go fetch it.”

Calum
gestured to the chair beside him. “Nay, stay and drink a pint of ale. Ye must
be thirsty after having the entire clan spin ye around the floor.”

She
giggled and pressed her hand to her chest—just above those creamy breasts that had
managed not to burst free. Calum swiped his hand across his mouth and forced
his gaze away.

The
dance and the drink cast aside the stone façade the lady had worn earlier.
Calum watched her, chatted with her, while his heart swelled with desire.
Norman was right. The sooner she left Raasay, the faster he could return to the
way things were—the way things
ought
to be.

When
the hall began to empty, Anne glanced toward the stone tower stairs. “I think
I’d best retire.”

Calum
stood. “I shall escort ye.”

“That
shouldn’t be necessary.”

“I
insist.” He didn’t want to admit it could be dangerous for a stunningly
beautiful woman to climb the stairs of the keep alone after the entire clan had
partaken in a feast. Whisky had a way of pulling away men’s inhibitions where
the lassies were concerned. That’s why Calum stuck to ale.

Anne
accepted his arm. The stragglers watched him lead her to the staircase,
whispering behind their hands.

“It
seems we’re making quite a spectacle.”

“Pay
them no mind. They’re not used to seeing a fine lady like yourself in the
keep.”

“I
saw a number of pretty girls dancing.”

“Pretty,
aye, but none have yer refinement.” He grasped a piece of her blue damask
fabric between his fingers. “Or a gown as fine as this. ’Tis never seen in
these parts.”

“Ah.
I am a bit out of place.”

Calum
clamped his jaw shut. She shouldn’t be there at all—Brochel Castle was no place
for an English maid—
matron
. His heart
thundered against his chest He walked the lady to
his
chamber, fighting an internal battle. How could he convince her
to allow him inside—and how the hell was he going to resist if she did? The
offending chamber door came all too quickly. Anne stopped and lifted her chin
to face him. His stomach squeezed when her stare met his in the dim shadows of
the landing. A slow burning torch danced shadows over her. A strand of blonde
hair covered her sultry face. Heaven help him, he wanted to ravish her.

“We
made it the whole two flights without mishap.” Her eyes flickered in the light reflecting
her amusement. She offered him a teasing smile.

“Aye,
milady.” His voice rasped.

He
grasped her silky smooth hands between his and raised them to his mouth. His
tongue slipped through his lips ever so subtly as he kissed those dainty
fingers. The sleeve of her gown slipped to her elbow, revealing the luscious
white of her forearm.

Hot
yearning swirled beneath his kilt while he languidly smoothed kisses along the
length of that silken arm. Anne’s muffled groan sent him undone. The thickening
beneath his kilt shot to rigid. He stepped in and gazed down upon her lovely
face. “I want to kiss ye.”

Her
breath quickened, but the desire in her darkened eyes expressed all. Taking her
hands, he placed them on his hips. With one more step, he pressed his body against
hers, molded to it as if God almighty had made them a matched pair. Calum
lowered his head, and Anne’s eyes stared at his mouth, hungry.

Gently,
he touched his lips to hers. Anne’s fingers dug into his flesh. Her breathing quickened
to shallow gasps, but her lips did not move. The realization that she had never
been kissed shot through the tip of his cock like lightning. Calum stroked the
parting of her lips with his tongue and dove into her mouth. Sweet, feminine,
Anne didn’t resist. Taking her hand, he showed her how to caress his skin, how
to touch him.

Gradually,
Anne responded. Her hands clamped around his hips and slowly crept lower. The
tops of her breasts pushed into his chest. Calum wanted to feel more of her,
but the stiff stomacher of her gown forced distance. If only he could unlace it
and free her from her bindings—all of her bindings.

His
heart raced while he fingered an errant lace at the back of her gown. He rubbed
the length of his body side-to-side in harmony with hers. She completely melted
in his arms.

Heaven
help him, he needed to stop. Now. His breath stuttered as he pulled away. Her
eyes glazed, her cheeks red with lust, she panted. As if shamed, she released
hands and cast her gaze downward. “Please forgive me, my lord.” Her voice
warbled.

Calum
caressed her cheek. “It is I who must be forgiven. Ye are far too delectable to
resist.”

“I
must not forget the fact that I am married.”

Calum’s
gut clenched—must that offensive detail continue to plague him? “Of course.” He
took a step back wiped his palms on his kilt. “I will endeavor to practice
restraint, milady.”

“Yes,
we must.”

Anne
stepped into her room. When the door closed, the lock clicked. He ran his
fingers through his hair, trying to block the image of Anne undressing and
releasing those breasts that had toyed with his sensibilities all night. He’d
just kissed her—threw decorum out the window and had given into his lust. He was
no better than Norman who tried to take advantage of every lassie in sight.

Calum
raced down the stairs and grabbed a bottle of whisky.

He
passed the friar, slumped in the corner with one eye open. “Where are ye
going?”

“To
the stables. ’Tis the only place where I can forget a temptress with golden
hair and sapphire eyes.”

Once
outside, Calum took a long draw of the whisky and coughed. Having Anne in his
chamber for a month would drive him mad. He pictured her sleeping in his bed, lying
under his bedclothes—alone. He took another drink. Och, one bottle wouldn’t be
enough.

Calum’s
scent lingered on everything. Each time Anne closed her eyes, she felt his lips
caress her hands, travel up her arm and claim her mouth. She’d actually kissed
him, turned to butter in his arms and allowed him to show her how. The worst
thing? She had wanted him to do it, prayed he would—and now she’d had him swirl
his tongue inside her mouth, she craved more. Every inch of her flesh screamed
for Calum MacLeod,
the pirate
, to put
his hands on her and flutter kisses across her skin.

Sleep
strayed from her grasp. Anne imagined him touching her with his rough hands,
hands that wielded a sword and worked beside his men, hands that had shown her
tenderness. She closed her eyes and saw John’s hand cup Mara’s breast. She brushed
her fingers across her nipple. To her shock, a moist gush of yearning pooled at
the most sacred apex of her body.

With
a moan, Anne flung back the bedclothes and paced the cold floor.
A month? How will I endure this for a month?
How can my weak flesh resist him?
She stood at the window, pulled back the
furs and looked out over the bay. The outline of wooden skiffs blended into the
smooth grey-brown stones of the beach.

Could
she escape? What danger lay across the sound? This was northern Scotland, a land
where barbarian’s lurked in the mountains. Without a guide, her chances of
making it to England safely seemed slim. Could she convince Bran to help?
Though only two and ten, the boy was nearly as tall as a man, broad shouldered,
as well. But Bran’s fierce loyalty to Calum gave her pause.

Anne
marched to the hearth and tossed a clump of peat onto the fire. Escape might be
the only way to stop the yearning. But, did she really want to rush into Lord Wharton’s
arms? She could not slip away without a plan. That would be foolish.

In
the interim, she needed to find something to occupy her time—and keep her mind
off the devilishly handsome laird.

Brochel
Castle would have the same issues as Titchfield House, and by the state of the
keep, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a challenging cause. She’d apply herself
to the task on the morrow.

***

“Are
ye awake, milady?” a female voice asked.

“Yes.”
Anne tied off the stitch and snipped it with her sewing shears. “I was just
mending a hole in the duvet.”

Mara
stepped inside holding a tray. “I brought ye some porridge. I thought ye might
never come down.”

“I’m
sorry. I thought I’d mend some of these holes before the coverlet started
molting. I should have gone down to the hall.”

“’Tis
no problem.” Mara pattered over to the table and set the tray atop. “Ye must be
sick with worry, being a hostage and all.”

Hostage?
She hadn’t thought of herself that way. Mara looked at her questioningly as if
waiting for a reply. Anne slipped into the wooden chair. “I’ve had a lot on my
mind.”

“Ye
must yearn for yer husband something awful.”

Anne
couldn’t hold back her shrug. How could she yearn for a man she did not yet
know?

“No?”
Mara pressed.

With
a sigh, Anne explained what had happened and why she’d been found alone in her
stateroom. “You see, I’ve no idea what he looks like. He’s eight and fifty. At
that age, I am not convinced I want to meet him.”

Mara
shuddered. “I shouldna let John leave this morning.”

John’s gone? Already?
A rock formed in the pit of Anne’s stomach. “’Tis nothing that can be helped. I
cannot stay here. I’d take a skiff and row down the coast if I thought it safe.”

“I
wouldna think twice about doing that. Ye’d be taken by Gypsies or worse.”

“Gypsies?
In the Highlands?”

“Aye,
they’re everywhere.” Mara ran her hands over her linen wimple. “Are ye
comfortable here?”

Anne
spread her arms wide. “I’m staying in the laird’s chamber. That’s a situation which
cannot last.”

Mara
took the seat across from Anne. At Titchfield House it would be unheard of for
a servant to take a seat uninvited, but one look at Mara’s angelic face and
Anne didn’t mind. Mara had an endearing air about her, and Anne needed a friend
now more than ever.

The
Scottish woman leaned forward with a sly grin, as if she had a secret she
couldn’t keep. “He likes ye.”

Anne
picked up her spoon and studied her porridge, praying the fire in her cheeks
hadn’t resulted in a brilliant blush. “My heavens. What are you talking about?”

“Calum.”
Mara sat up, appearing satisfied with herself. “He looks at ye the way a
starvin’ man eyes a leg of lamb—same way John looks at me.”

Anne
fought her smile by forcing the corners of her mouth into a frown. “Oh please.
There must be hundreds of eligible women in the Hebrides who could win the
laird’s affections.”

“A
few have come to Raasay on their father’s arm, but they always go home with
long faces.”

“Why
would that be? Surely Calum would want an heir.”

“Of
course he does, but he’s a difficult man to please—stubborn like all Highlanders
if ye ask me.” Mara sprang up and studied Anne’s handiwork. “I think he wants
to marry for love.” Her voice trailed off, as if that were the most romantic
thought she’d ever had.

“Marry
for love?” Anne shook her head—that was a fantasy she could ill afford. “You
must be daft.”

Mara
crossed to the bed and slammed her fist into a red satin pillow, giving it a
hearty fluff. “Why would ye think that? I fell in love with John. Heavens, I cannot
imagine being married to any other man.”

Anne
scooped a spoon of porridge. Calum probably hadn’t chosen a wife because he was
too busy privateering. “May I ask you a sensitive question?”

“Hmm.
Ask it and I’ll tell ye if I’m able to answer.”

Anne
set down her spoon and dabbed her lips with the cloth. “What’s it like—ah—being
married to someone you
love
?”

Mara
smiled as if she’d opened a window to a field full of fragrant blooms. “Tis
like sleeping with yer dearest friend every night.” She lifted her hand across to
her shoulder and it skimmed down to her wrist. “Except he’s a brawny man, and
in his arms I feel safe and protected…and loved. As if I’m queen over all the Earth.”

Mara’s
gaze turned distant. With a turn of her head, she shook her finger at Anne. “Ye
should have seen Calum when ye were dancing last night. I thought he’d go mad
watching ye with the others.”

Anne
again frowned, fighting her urge to smile. “I’m his prisoner. Under his
protection until he can deliver me to the baron. ’Tis all.”

“Think
what ye like. I ken what I saw.” Mara bustled to the door. “I must away. I have
to find somewhere to store all the food from the
Flying Swan
, see to the day’s meals, change the linens, see to the
sick—there’s a nasty cough going ’round—Oh yes, and there’s never enough time
for all the housekeeping.”

“You’re
not doing all those things yourself?”

“Aye,
who else?”

“Mara,
you cannot possibly think you can take on everything and still maintain your
sanity.”

“Well,
someone’s got to do it.”

“You’re
right, someone must, but not you. I have experience as the mistress of an estate.
Your job is to see the tasks done to your satisfaction.” She held up her
finger. “It is
not
for you to do them
yourself.”

“But
what am I to do? Everyone is busy. They’ll think me a laggard if I dunna pull
me weight.”

“They
will not. They will respect you for your clever management. Let me dress and
I’ll watch you work. If the keep looks anything like it did yesterday, you
could use a lesson or two from an earl’s daughter.”

Mara
smoothed a hand down her worn kirtle. “I dunna know.”

Anne
threw open the lid of her trunk and found her apron. “What harm is there? Besides,
I must do something rather than sit in this dank chamber waiting to be whisked
back to England.”

***

Calum
took a skiff over to the
Flying Swan
right after John left for Applecross on the mainland.

Walking
the deck with his boatswain, Robert, Calum discussed necessary changes. “We
need to rid ourselves of the obvious signs, like the swan maiden on the bow.”

“What
shall we name her?”

The
first thing that came to Calum’s mind was
Lady
Anne
. That wouldn’t do. It would remind him of her long after the woman was
gone—haunt him even. “Let’s call her
The
Golden Sun.
” He ran his fingers along the rigging. “’Twill remind everyone
of our crest, yet will no’ drive anyone to suspect the MacLeod’s of Raasay.”

“
The Golden Sun?
” The boatswain scratched
his chin. “I like it.”

Calum
patted Robert’s back and led him to the captain’s cabin, tossing his satchel on
the bed. Together they went over the drawings of the ship and pointed out where
the carpenters could make changes so the ship could no longer be recognized as
the
Flying Swan
. It wouldn’t take
much—adding a cannon portal on each side, changing the shape of the bow, adding
a poop deck—all subtle changes to make the ship unrecognizable.

“How
much time do ye need?” Calum asked.

“Two,
mayhap three months, given we have the materials.”

“Good.
Check the stores and get back to me with a more definite timeline. I’ve heard
word the Spaniards are hauling loads of silver from the New World and Sir John Hawkins
is the only one plundering.” He leaned in. “I want a piece of that.”

Robert
rubbed his hands together. “Aye, captain. I’ll have the carpenters start on it
straight away.” His eyes strayed to the satchel. “Are ye planning on staying on
the ship?”

“I
thought about it.”

“Has
it anything to do with the English lassie ye were dancing up a storm with last
eve?”

Calum
bristled, yanked open the satchel, and pulled out a shirt. “What of her?”

Robert
ran a hand across his beard. “So you’re hiding from the clan?”

“Never.”
Calum threw the shirt on the bed. “I’m putting a safe distance between me and
what I ken I shouldn’t be trifling with. Mind yer step when ye leave. The
rain’s made the deck slippery and a fellow can end up in the sea with no one to
throw him a rope.”

***

“You
cannot read or write?” Anne asked and then cringed. She was well aware few had
access to tutors as she had.

“Nay,
milady.” Mara threw up her arms and walked toward the kitchen door.

“Wait.
Forgive me. I can be a muttonhead at times.” Anne patted the bench beside her
and motioned for Mara to resume her seat at the table. “You could draw pictures
and use ticks to count the number of barrels.”

“But
why is it so important to record the inventory? When we run out, we’re out.”

“If
you know how many barrels of oats you have, you can determine
when
you’ll run out. It will help you
plan for sewing seed—you might even have enough of something to sell.” She
avoided suggesting they send a ship out and steal it. After all, she wanted
them to become self-sufficient so they wouldn’t need to plunder English ships.

Mara
opened her mouth as if to object but shut it. Leaning forward, she looked at
the parchment.

Anne
drew a bowl with a squiggly line across the top. “This could be your sign for
oats.”

“Aye,
that looks like a bowl of porridge.”

“Good.
How many barrels did you count?”

“Ten.”

“Easy,
just make ten marks like this.” She drew precise strikes in a row beside the
picture. “When you open a new barrel, put a line through it like this—Now how
many barrels of oats are left?”

Mara
hesitated, but didn’t need to count the tick marks. “Nine.”

“Do
you know how often the keep goes through a barrel of oats?”

“It
takes about a fortnight.”

“So
how many weeks do you have in store?” Anne held her breath, praying the math wouldn’t
be difficult for someone with no education.

Mara
looked at the paper and counted twice for every tick.

“Eighteen
weeks?”

Anne
clapped her hands. “Exactly! You’re very good at this.”

“Ye
think?”

“I
know it. It comes natural to you.”

Grinning,
Mara sat a bit taller.

By
the midday meal, they had all the food stores inventoried. Anne’s heart swelled
with pride when she watched Mara show the cooks how to mark off items when they
pulled things out of the larder.

Even
Friar Pat came by the kitchen and inspected the morning’s work. “Calum will be pleased.”

“Do
you think so?”

“Aye,
child.”