The Dream Catcher (2 page)

‘Actually, the
Sea Eagle
docking at Wrath Harbour may be the answer to my prayers.'

MacBoyd shot him a puzzled glance. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I could take the ship and the woman hostage and ask McRae for a hefty ransom. Isn't that what my ancestor, good old Fergus McGunn, did just over a century ago? Except, of course, that he got to keep the “
belle dame
” and the money.'

His friend burst out laughing. ‘Is that why you're growing that ugly beard – so that you can look like him?'

Bruce shrugged. ‘No, it's not. Now I'm not in the army anymore, I can't be bothered to shave.'

MacBoyd sobered up and cast him a worried glance.

‘You're not really contemplating taking the woman and the clipper hostage, are you?'

Bruce's lips stretched into a tight smile.

‘Why not? It may be my only chance of getting the money I need… unless I find Bonnie Prince Charlie's gold in the next six weeks, and we both know it's not going to happen. By the way, where are McRae's two sailors now?'

‘They rowed back to the
Sea Eagle
. I guess they felt they were safer on board than in the village'

‘Very wise of them. Anyway, we'd better hurry. If indeed McRae's mistress is on board, we must get her away from the village fast. We can both guess what kind of welcome our people will give her.'

He squeezed Shadow's sides between his knees and the horse lunged ahead.

Despite the crowd gathered on the docks to watch the
Sea Eagle
sail into the Kyle, an eerie silence greeted Bruce and MacBoyd as they rode into the village. The wind had died down. The air was ominously still. Women in bonnets and clogs, their woollen shawls pulled tightly across their shoulders against the cold, clutched their children against them whilst the men glared, grim-faced, at the clipper.

Bruce slid down from his horse, tied the reins around a post and pushed his way to the front of the silent crowd. As if they'd just been waiting for him, everybody started talking at once.

‘If the bastard's on board we must go and get him,' a man shouted, raising his fist above his head. ‘It's time he found out how we treat murderers and arsonists here at Wrath.'

‘Let's hang him, and his men with him,' another bellowed. ‘My sister was turned out of her croft last month, though she was a widow with two bairns. They were left to freeze to death in the snow.'

‘We had to leave with nothing when Morven burned our village,' a woman cried out. ‘They killed our poultry, they even threw our old dog into the fire.'

‘Morven laughed when he burned my house,' an older woman said, tears shining in her eyes, ‘and then he spat in my husband's face and beat him to the ground.'

The outpouring of grief and anger went on for several minutes.

Bruce stood silent, his face hard as stone. No matter how often he heard their heart-wrenching stories, he still felt the same dark rage inside. These people had come to him after Arthur Morven, McRae's factor, had burned their crofts or cottar houses. Cheviot sheep, that's what McRae wanted on his Westmore estate – big, fat Cheviot sheep which could earn him vast profits. He'd soon get his wish, having now cleared his land of most of the families who had lived and worked there for generations.

A short, stocky man with wild blond hair and a hard glare in his blue eyes stepped forward.

‘What are we waiting for? Let's go on board, bring McRae here and pay him in his own coin.'

Bruce spoke at last. ‘Cameron McRae isn't on board. There's only his crew and a woman.'

‘His whore, you mean! Then I say we storm the ship, take its cargo, and give her a lesson she won't forget.'

The man's face flushed a deep beetroot red, and Bruce lay a calming hand on his shoulder.

‘This isn't our way to do things, Angus. Destroying the ship and hurting an innocent woman won't bring your land, your cattle or your daughter back.'

Angus MacKay had lost his croft house and small plot of land the previous summer, but what made his plight particularly poignant was that his fifteen-year-old daughter had disappeared a few days later and not yet been found.

Bruce turned to face the crowd.

‘I know how much all of you suffered these past few months, but resorting to violence won't achieve anything. The police constables or the army will come. You'll hang at Loch Croispol, and your children and wives will watch you dangle from the gallows.'

‘I never thought you'd be on his side.' MacKay spat on the wet cobbles.

‘I'm not on his side, goddamn it. Of course I'm not.' Bruce hardened his voice. ‘I'm asking you to trust me and let me deal with McRae's woman my way. She has nothing to do with what's going on around here. Is that clear?'

He scanned the crowd, looked hard at every man and woman until they nodded and muttered a reluctant agreement.

MacBoyd pointed to the clipper moored in the Kyle.

‘Why hasn't the captain sailed up to the quay and docked?'

‘He probably wants to put some distance between himself and us, and I can't say I blame him with that lot.' Bruce waved toward the villagers behind him. ‘Organize a boat to fetch the passengers. No doubt McRae's mistress has an army of servants and a pile of luggage.'

Rose pulled down her hood and snuggled more closely into her cloak. It felt good to be out in the open at last, away from the sickly smells of her small cabin, even if the air was so cold it stung her face and burned her throat with every breath she took. How could people live in such a cold, dreary place? She bit her lower lip. If Westmore turned out to be as bleak as Wrath, would she be able to bear it, even with Cameron?

A speck of white fluff landed on her cloak, then another, and another. It was snowing! Rose looked up and smiled as flakes touched her face and sprinkled over her coat like delicate confections of icing sugar. She caught a flake on the tip of her tongue, tasted it and laughed aloud.

The big man with wild red hair sitting opposite who had introduce himself as MacBoyd – MacBear, more like – scowled at her.

‘What's the matter with you?'

The laughter died on her lips and her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment.

‘I've never seen snow before. Isn't it beautiful?'

‘There's nothing beautiful about it when you've no home, no warm clothing and no food to put in your belly,' he grumbled in a burry voice she could hardly understand. He sounded angry, as if he held her personally responsible for people being homeless in the harsh winter.

‘Well… no, I suppose not,' she stammered, feeling a little silly now. She sat straight and tried to ignore the flurries of snowflakes dancing in the wind, though all she wanted was to catch them in the palm of her hand, or taste them as they touched her lips.

She turned to the harbour where a crowd had gathered.

‘What are all these people waiting for?'

‘You, darling.' He winked. ‘They can't wait to take a good look at McRae's latest fancy woman.'

Heat rushed to her face. Her fingers tightened in her lap and she stiffened her spine.

‘I am nobody's fancy woman. I'll have you know that I'm…' She bit her lip, hesitating. She had promised Cameron to keep their marriage a secret until the ball at Westmore on Saturday. Nobody knew they had married in Algiers, not even Captain Kennedy.

The big man leaned over and grinned. ‘What was that, flower?'

She swallowed hard, shook her head.

‘Nothing. It was nothing.'

They didn't speak again until the dinghy reached the harbour. MacBoyd grabbed hold of the ladder fixed onto the wall and extended his hand.

‘Come on, up you go,' he urged as helped her to her feet.

Scrambling up the ladder in her cumbersome new cloak and gown, her layers of frilly petticoats and dainty, heeled boots was no easy feat. She'd much rather wear her pantaloons, shirt and flat shoes but she had appearances to keep up now she was married to an important man, even if nobody knew about it yet.

She climbed high enough to peep above the harbour wall but all she could see were feet clad in scruffy boots, shoes and clogs. She rose a few more rungs, and this time met dozens of men's, women's and children's eyes, all glaring down at her in frozen silence.

‘That'll be her – McRae's new tart!' a gangly child cried out as he pointed a dirty finger at her.

The crowd erupted in coarse laughter. Her heart pounding, her chest tight, she gripped the sides of the ladder. If that was the way the people of Wrath welcomed her, she'd go down into the dinghy and demand to be taken back to the
Sea Eagle
right away.

She didn't have the chance. A giant stepped in front of her. Dressed in black riding boots, black breeches and riding coat, he was so tall and his shoulders so broad the already dark horizon darkened further.

‘Silence.'

His voice was deep and calm, the voice of a man used to be obeyed. The crowd hushed at once.

He bent down in front of her.

‘Well, well, who do we have here?'

Even though she could hardly see his face, she felt his eyes bore into hers, and it was enough to make her mind go blank.

‘Rose… Rose Saintclair.'

‘Where are the others, your servants, your maids?'

‘I… I don't have any.'

‘Really? That's a surprise. All right then, come up.' He held both his hands out.

She hesitated a moment before placing her hands in his. He pulled her up and she flew straight into his arms, landing with a bump against his broad, hard chest. He was so tall she had to tilt her face all the way back to look at him. Her heart skipped a beat, then started bumping fast and loud.

His eyes were grey and framed by dark eyelashes, his nose straight and strong, his cheekbones high and sharp. Thick black stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and his hair flew around his face, the colour of a raven's wing. There was something dangerous about him, something reminiscent of a brutal warrior from days long gone by.

She wriggled to free herself but he didn't let go and his mouth curved into a mocking smile.

‘Well,
Fàilte
, my sweetheart. ‘I'll say this for McRae. If there's one thing the rascal can do, it's pick his fancy women.'

His hand slid from her waist and he patted her bottom.

Her reaction was instinctive. She swung her arm and lifted her hand to slap him. She didn't have the chance. Without batting an eyelid he caught her wrist.

‘Steady on, sweetheart. You have a nasty little temper.'

‘And you have no right to insult me in this way, you vile brute,' she hissed. ‘I am not Lord McRae's
fancy woman
, as you so elegantly put it, I'm his wife!'

She had expected at least a shocked response or a groveling apology but he merely smiled.

‘It's all right,
gràidheag
, you don't have to pretend.'

‘Pretend what?'

‘Pretend you're married to the man. I don't care if you're McRae's mistress or his laundry maid, if you scrub his back or his dirty shirts.'

‘I am telling the truth, you stubborn macaque,' she shouted in frustration. ‘I married Lord McRae in Algiers four weeks ago.'

‘Please don't scream quite so loud. I heard you the first time. I just don't believe you.'

‘What?'

‘First you introduce yourself as Rose Saintclair, now you're spinning me a tale about being married McRae. Make up your mind, sweetie.'

He glanced at her hand. ‘I don't see any wedding band on your finger.'

‘That's because Cameron wanted to keep the wedding a secret. Never mind, I don't have to explain anything to you. Now let go of me.'

She wriggled to break free, but he was still holding her wrist, leaving her no choice but to kick him hard in the shin with the tip of her boot – the very pointy tip of the fashionable new boots she had made in Algiers.

‘Ouch. Steady on, sweetheart.'

‘Let go of me, you deranged baboon! And stop calling me sweetheart.'

She kicked him again, harder. He muttered something in a strange, guttural language she didn't understand and let go of her so suddenly she staggered backward and fell on her bottom on the hard, wet cobbles.

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart beat hard, erratic. Tears blurred her vision as people sneered and clapped around her. She knew McRaes and McGunns were enemies, but she had nothing to do with their feud, so why did everybody here seem to hate her so much? And why was the big hairy brute intent on humiliating her and not believing a word she said?

He stepped closer and offered his hand.

‘Come on, now, sweetheart. Let's start again. I think we got off on the wrong foot.'

He sounded contrite but she wasn't ready to forgive him. Ignoring his hand, she scrambled to her feet, and straightened her back. Attack was the best defence, her brother often said, and Lucas knew what he was talking about. He was the best scout in the whole of the Barbary States – or Algeria as the French now called her country.

‘Take me to your master immediately,' she started in a voice as cold and steady she could manage, ‘so I can ask him to have you whipped for your insolence.'

There was a collective gasp from the people around them. Not looking in the least impressed, the man crossed his arms on his broad chest and arched his eyebrows.

‘Really?'

She took another deep breath.

‘That's what I do to disrespectful servants on my estate, and I can assure you they stop smirking after five lashes.' That was an outrageous lie, of course, but no one here was to know.

'If what you said earlier is true, then I see McRae chose his bride well.' The man's eyes were now hard as steel. ‘You and he are indeed a match made in heaven, or in hell. I'm sure you'll be very happy together.' He paused. ‘I'm sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I don't approve of whipping people, or beasts, for that matter.'