Rogue of the High Seas (19 page)

Wesley checked his watch again. “Speaking of waiting. Where is the little bitch? Go inside and inquire, will you?”

Nicholas nodded and stepped out of the carriage. A few minutes later he was back. He sat down on the seat across from Wesley and picked up the box of bon-bons. “You will not be needing these today.”

Wesley frowned. “Why not? The chit is not ill, is she?”

“I would not know,” Nicholas replied and then started laughing. “She left for Glenfinnan the day Richard's ship came in.”

Chapter Twenty

“What are ye doing here?” Shane asked, an incredulous look on his face when he arrived from Glasgow to find Abigail and Shauna sitting close to one of the hearths in the Great Hall of Ian's medieval castle turned home. “And which of those fool footmen brought ye? I will—”

“It was not the footmen's fault,” Abigail said. “They followed our orders.”

Shane turned to Shauna. “And ye…ye allowed my wife to travel in her condition? What were ye thinking?”

Shauna almost cringed at the outrage in Shane's voice, since he rarely lost his temper. But then she was quite used to Ian and Jamie losing theirs, so she shrugged. “We needed to come.”

Shane drew his brows together. “Why?”

“Ye may have noticed Bridget dinnae greet ye at the door?” Shauna asked.

“So?”

“So Brodie is gravely ill. Bridget stays at his bedside.”

Shane's expression turned to concern. “'Tis that bad?”

“The physician is nae sure what is wrong,” Shauna said, “but Ian has sent word to Brodie's kin. Since Jillian just gave birth, I felt like we needed to be here to help.”

Shane looked at Abigail. “The ride dinnae overtax ye?”

“I am fine.”

Shauna tried not to grimace. The ride itself had not been overtaxing, but Kyla complaining about the bumps and the footmen grumbling about their future jobs had made her want to yell at all of them—and she was not a yelling type. “Ian should be back soon. He went into the woods to find the old crone.”

Shane looked somewhat pacified. “Aye, a good idea. If anyone can help, it will be her.”

“Who is this crone?” Abigail asked.

“Fiona would tell ye she is part Fae.” Shauna said. “But truly, she is just an old woman who lives in a hut and kens much about herbs and such.”

“Then why did someone not go to her before?”

“She doesnae always stay at her hut since she goes in search of plants,” Shauna replied.

“If she doesnae want to be found or seen, she will nae be,” Shane said.

“Speaking of seeing…” Shauna looked past Shane into the empty hall. “Where is Robert? And Owen,” she added. Shane gave her a sharp look that told her he knew Owen was only an afterthought.

“Owen went to see his father to discuss the kelp project.”

“And Robert?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded neutral. Drat Shane for making her ask a second time.

“Robert rode on to Arisaig to see if his grandmother still lives or if he has other MacDonald kin.”

And
? Shauna wanted to ask when Shane didn't offer more information. Sometimes her cousin could be maddeningly succinct. She gave Abigail an exasperated look.

Her friend took the cue. “And will Captain Henderson be coming here afterwards?”

“It depends on what—who—he finds.” Shane shrugged. “I told him Owen and I would be spending a week before we go back to Edinburgh. It might be longer now that Brodie is ill. I best go up to see him.”

Shauna bit back her frustration as Shane left the library. Would Robert be coming here or wouldn't he? She wished she knew.

Robert crested a small hill and reined his mount to a halt. The road—more of a rough trail—led down the slope to the small village of Arisaig nestled between larger hills and the edge of a cove where waters lapped gently over exposed rocks and mud. The tide was out, but Robert didn't think he'd ever been so glad to see the sea. He'd spent the better part of five days riding from Glasgow and he freely admitted he was more seaman than horseman. He probably should have accepted Shane's offer to stop at Glenfinnan, but he was anxious to find out if his grandmother still lived.

He nudged the horse forward, although the animal probably sensed or smelled the warmth of a stable and needed no urging. He petted the gelding's neck. “It's been a cold ride, hasn't it?” The horse tossed his head as if in answer.

Once the horse was stabled, Robert made his way to the small public house that seemed to be the center of activity for the whole village. After securing one of the two rooms available to let, he made his way to the open room that provided food and drink.

“Do you know if an Alana MacDonald lives near here?” Robert asked when the other man behind a long, wooden bar set down a pint in front of him.

The barkeep studied him for a moment before he replied. “Aye, she did.”

“Did?” Robert swallowed hard. “Did she pass away?”

“Near two years ago.”

Robert felt as though his horse had kicked him in the belly. Why had he never made an effort to find his kin before? “I am sorry to hear that. I am her grandson.”

The other man nodded. “Aye, I can see that.”

“See…do I look like her?”

“Nae. Ye look like your da.”

“My father?” Robert studied the barkeeper. He appeared to be a few years older than himself. Certainly not old enough to remember his father. Unless… “Are you saying you've seen my father?”

The barkeeper looked at him as though he were daft. “Aye. I've got two good eyes, ye ken.”

“Here? You saw my father here?”

“And where else might I be seeing him? I have nae left the village in years.”

“When…how long ago was he here?”

The other man shrugged. “He sailed out a month ago, maybe a wee bit more.”

“A
month
? Are you saying my father was here a
month
ago?”

“Do ye have a need to repeat what I say? I heard myself well enough.”

“No, I just…” His father had been gone so long Robert had begun to believe he truly had been lost at sea. “I haven't seen my father in nearly twenty years. Do you know if he'll be returning?”

The man gave him another strange look. “Aye, he always returns.”

Robert took a health swig of his ale. “Are you saying he lives here?”

“That would be putting it right.”

“Where can I find out when his ship is due in?”

“Ye'd have to go down to the harbour for that, but ye might ask his wife.”

“His wife?”

The barkeep frowned. “Ye ken ye have a habit of repeatin' things.”

“I…I am just surprised. This is all a shock.” Robert gulped more ale. “How long have they been married? Who is she?”

“I am nae the clerk here. The best I can recall your da's ship sailed in to port about '98. Could have been '99. I was a bairn, but Joanna—the Widow MacDonald—set her cap for him shortly after.”

“Where does she—do they—live?”

“Down past the corner and third cottage on your right,” the barkeeper answered and then poured another draft which he placed in front of Robert.

“I haven't finished this one yet.”

“Ye are going to be needing another one.”

Robert eyed him warily. “Why?”

“Because ye have three blood brothers and seven more from the widow's first marriage. A wild bunch they are, always lookin' to fight.” The barkeep nudged the tankard closer. “And ye have half-wild sister as well.”

Robert reached for the full tankard. It seemed he was going to need it after all.

Leaving the bar shortly after draining the second pint, Robert turned at the end of the street and headed toward the cottage—actually a large, two story house with wood flats that sat back from the road amid a jumble of overgrown hedges and vines that needed tending as they drooped over a stone archway.

He'd hardly crossed through to the gravel walk leading to the door when he was knocked sideways by someone leaping unseen from the bushes. Being a seaman, Robert gained his balance quickly and ducked a flying fist. He brought up his own, finding what felt like granite, but getting a very satisfying grunt from the other person. He didn't have time to savor that small victory before he was assailed by two more ruffians leaping across the hedge from the other side of the yard. Robert wheeled, ducked again under another powerful blow and rammed into his attacker's belly, hearing a whoosh of air leave the man's lungs. Using the momentum he had, Robert lifted him over his shoulder and then spun around, using his previous attacker as a weapon to bring down the third. He heard an angry shout to halt and dropped the man, but he pulled his dagger free and crouched, ready for another attack.

“Here now. We'll have nae more of that.” A heavily muscled man wearing a leather jerkin over bare arms stood in the doorway of the house. “How many times do I have to tell ye lads to find out what a mon wants before ye try to beat him senseless?”

“We were just having fun,” the one whom Robert had dropped said as he sat up. “We dinnae mean nae harm.”

Robert sheathed his dagger and straightened. All three of the men who'd attacked him were grinning—and they all looked alike. Long, dark hair and light-colored eyes. That they all sported full sets of teeth testified to their fighting prowess, but then they were all huge men and, from his brief encounter, none of them wielded any fat.

“We be the MacDonalds,” the first attacker said.

He could have figured that out on his own, given what the barkeep had said, but he merely nodded. “I am Robert Henderson.”

The man in the jerkin came down the steps, his sea-green eyes scrutinizing. Robert sized him up as well. They appeared to be about the same age. The other men were younger and clearly deferred to this one. “Are you the one in charge here?”

He studied Robert a moment longer before he answered. “Aye, I'm Alasdair. These are my brothers, Braden, Gavin and Niall.” He tilted his head. “Ye are my step-father's son?”

“Yes, from America. I…had no idea my father was alive.”

“He has spoken of ye.” Alasdair gestured. “Will ye come in?”

Robert glanced at the younger three men watching him and wondered if they planned to have any more
fun
. Alasdair must have thought as much, because he cleared his throat. “In with ye, lads.”

They looked disappointed, but they climbed the steps ahead of him. Robert followed Alasdair inside. An attractive older woman came into the entryway. “What was all the commotion?” she asked and then stopped short when she saw Robert.

“My maither,” Alasdair said to Robert and then turned to her. “'Tis Robert. He's finally come.”

“Robert.” She came forward and smiled. “Welcome. I never thought to meet ye.”

“I did not know—”

“Of course ye dinnae ken. But come in to the parlor. I will fetch us some tea and cakes and we can talk.” She turned to Alasdair. “The rest of the lads and Margaret are out fishing, but bring in your brothers. I want ye all to get acquainted.”

His stepmother—Joanna—wasn't what Robert had expected. Slightly plump, with traces of grey in her hair, she was warm and friendly and dealt with her grown sons as though they were frisky pups. She couldn't have been more different from his own
maman
, who always wore the latest fashion New Orleans had and who would never think to put heaps of clotted cream on anything. But then, maybe that was why his father left.

Before the afternoon was through, Robert decided he quite liked his father's wife.

Robert hadn't counted on having all ten of his brothers riding with him when he left for Glenfinnan two days later. He'd almost had eleven escorts since Margaret—Meg—wanted to come along as well. It had taken both Alasdair and Aiden to persuade her to stay home to protect her mother. Robert had no doubt Meg could. The girl preferred wearing britches to dresses and could handle a broadsword and throw a dagger as accurately as anyone he'd seen. He pitied the man who would try and claim her as a wife.

Joanna had presented Robert with a MacDonald tartan of blue and green squares overridden by double lines of red and shown him how to pin it. When he mentioned he'd be proud to wear it to Glenfinnan, his half-brothers and step-brothers had immediately clamored that they would escort him since he'd be skirting MacLean lands. He foolishly asked why he'd need an escort and the question had silenced all of them. They'd looked at him as if he were a half-wit.

Apparently, any insult given the tartan was an insult to all MacDonalds.

Alasdair rode beside him, having assigned Braden to ride point and another brother—Robert thought his name was Aidan—to scout ahead for any sign of dark green plaids that might mean MacLeans watched them.

In addition to the brothers he'd met the first afternoon, there were twins named Cory and Carr. The twenty-two-year-olds were the only ones with coppery hair. Even his half-brothers, Lachlan, Rauri and Ewan, were dark-headed.

Robert looked at the large claymore latched over Alasdair's back and the various knives strapped around his waist. All the brothers, even fifteen-year-old Ewan, were similarly armed. “Do you really suspect an attack?”

Alasdair patted his knife belt. “Being well-armed is the best way to prevent it.”

“I suppose that's true,” Robert said. “I've had a pirate ship or two turn away once we fired muskets at them.”

“Aye. We have muskets too, although they take too long to load in close quarters. Highlanders still prefer swords.”

“Do you still feud then? I thought the English had put a stop to that.”

Alasdair's face darkened. “The English put a stop to many things—or at least they tried to.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the best thing they did was unite—at least for a wee while—many of the clans at Culloden.”

“But the MacLeans still hate the MacDonalds?”

Alasdair shrugged again. “Some do. Some of the MacLeods do as well, although Shane and his cousins are nae part of them.” He looked at the mountains surrounding them. “'Tis probably more danger from brigands these days than from clans.”

“Brigands? This far north?”

“Aye. Many are poor and rob of necessity. The Clearances made paupers of many a crofter. Some made it to the coast and some went on to New Scotland, but others refused to leave, even after they were burnt out.”