Captured by the Pirate Laird By Amy Jarecki
~ Book One: Highland Force Series ~
Chapter One
England. Portsmouth Dockyard, 25th March, 1559
Anne resisted the temptation to turn and flutter one last wave at her mother. The Countess of Southampton had said goodbye on the pier and would not wish her daughter to exhibit additional emotion. Wearing a blue velvet gown, her hair coiled under a caul net and veil, Anne played the part of baroness with no outward sign of the storm roiling beneath her skin.
Clutching Anne’s arm, Hanna walked up the gangway beside her. “I still cannot believe he wouldn’t allow me to escort you all the way to northern England. Heaven’s stars, you’ll be alone.”
“I’ll be fine.” Anne gave her serving maid a squeeze. “But I shall miss you most of all.”
“If you need me when you reach Alnwick, ask the baron to send a missive and I’ll come straight away.”
A vise clamped around Anne’s heart. “I know you will.”
They neared the galleon and a sailor reached for Anne’s hand.
Hanna released her grasp and gestured forward. “Milady.”
Anne stepped aboard the Flying Swan—the ship that would ferry her away from everything familiar. Hanna wrapped her in a warm embrace. “A baron who won’t pay for a single serving maid to accompany his new bride doesn’t deserve her—at least not a lady as gracious as you.”
Anne closed her eyes and squeezed them, trying not to tremble. “Everything will be fine. I shall write often and plead with the Lord Wharton to send for you.” She pulled back and held Hanna at arm’s length. “You shall see. His lordship will be generous. He merely doesn’t know me yet—doesn’t know our history.”
Anne watched her maid, her dearest friend return to Mother’s carriage. Alone she stood, abandoned on the deck of the galleon. Five days it would take to sail to the mouth of the River Aln where she would meet her husband for the first time. Five days without a serving maid? Anne still did not understand the baron’s reasoning.
She glanced at her gloves, covering the bare ring finger and shuddered. He’s how much older?
Anne could see only the top of the carriage as it wound through the busy dockyard, and she reached her hand out as if she could touch it one last time. But the countess’s carriage turned and disappeared behind the stone wall of the Fox and Hounds Inn.
Anne gripped the rail and craned her neck, but Mother was gone—Hanna gone—Anne’s life winding away, like the wheels that rolled back to Titchfield House without her. Her heart gripped her chest like a musket had blown a gaping hole through it. There she stood, like a pawn to the highest bidder.
Anne’s eyes drifted to the boisterous scene on the pier. Men loaded barrels onto carts pulled by big draft horses and merchants argued. She searched for a familiar face, and the hole in her heart enlarged when she recognized not a single person. She squared her shoulders. I’d best become accustomed to it.
Behind her, the quartermaster shouted the command to cast off. She leaned over the rail to watch the ship ease away from the pier with the water’s swirling torrent. To jump now would be certain death, having never learned to swim. For a second, she contemplated it. Death could be better than sharing a bed with a husband older than her own deceased father.
Captain Fortescue moved in beside her. “May I show you to your quarters, Lady Anne?” He smiled, wearing a feathered cap and neat black beard, fashionably groomed to a point and highlighted by the white ruff of his collar. His dark eyes reflected a glint of humor—he smirked. How comical it must be to escort a lady to a husband whom she had never met.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You will be under my protection until we meet the baron. If you should want for anything, please ask.”
“That is very kind of you,” she said, though the humor in his eyes was not kind in the least.
“’Tis nothing. You are a guest aboard the Flying Swan and with good wind, we should reach your new husband in no time. She’s a grand ship, none faster.”
The deck swarmed with able-bodied sailors, swinging from the rigging as the wind slapped and ballooned the giant sails.
While the quartermaster bellowed orders, Captain Fortescue led her aft to a narrow corridor. He used a key to open her cabin door and stepped aside. “I must apologize. I’m sure there is not as much space as a lady of your stature would be accustomed.”
The tiny room held a small bed, leaving room enough for a narrow aisle between the cot and her luggage, which lined the far wall. A wooden chair, a round table, a bowl and ewer with a looking glass bolted above it—crude accommodations by anyone’s imagination. “This will be fine.” Anne squeezed past the captain, bumping her hip on one of her trunks.
“Very well.” He reached for the latch. “My officers and I would be honored if you would dine with us.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.” Perhaps they’ll serve a draught of hemlock.
“I shall knock on your door when it is time.” He moved to pull it closed, but stopped. “’Tis best to keep the door locked when you are within.”
Anne turned the lock and then covered her face with her hands. Only now did she allow the tears to come.
Lord Wharton, first Baron of Wharton, had seen her once at Queen Elizabeth’s coronation five months ago. A hundred times, Anne had filed through her memory of that visit to court. She and her sisters had met so many people, so many grand men had kissed her hand and introduced themselves, but she could not place the baron—a grey haired man, no doubt—if he had hair. Anne staggered to the bed, buried her face in the pillow and surrendered to her silent sobs.
Since the day her uncle had come to Titchfield House and revealed she had been wed, Anne needed smelling salts to keep her wits. She hadn’t taken to her bed with a bout of melancholy because her marriage had been performed by proxy. The age of the man mortified her. At eight and fifty, Lord Wharton was a widower with four children who were all older than Anne—past her prime at nine and ten.
She sat up with a jolt and slammed her fist into the pillow. She would have to meet those children. Would she ever be able to look them in the eye when they referred to her as stepmother? The pillow dropped to the floor. Surely there are grandchildren as well.
Anne pressed her knuckles against her temples and fought to regain control. She would overcome this. She would prove herself worthy to the baron’s estate just as she had done at Titchfield House. His lordship might be old, but he’d discover he had married far more than a pretty courtier. Anne steadied her breath and repeated her title, “Baroness of Wharton.” Married to a stranger nine and thirty years her senior.
***
Calum MacLeod stood on the deck of the Sea Dragon and peered through the spyglass. Just as his informants had advised, the new English racing galleon had set sail. The ship was bound for the north, laden with grain and cloth—all things his people on Raasay desperately needed. Things his miserly brother, living off the fat on the Isle of Lewis, refused to part with.
Calum intended to seize it for them. His father had gone to great lengths to separate the clan and secure a charter to name him laird over the Hebride isle. Yes, it was insignificant compared to Lewis, but his clansmen were fighters. The people of Raasay fought through the eight months of winter, raising their bairns as they ploughed the rocky soil, more often frozen than not. Calum aimed to remedy their plight by building their wealth or dying in the process. On one thing he was firm, he would not recline in his keep while his people starved.
He salivated, admiring the galleon’s sleek lines. With three masts and a trim hull, she could outrun any ship in Her Majesty’s fleet, including Calum’s own carrack, his beloved Sea Dragon.
“She’s a beauty.” John Urquhart, cousin on his mother’s side, quartermaster, and Calum’s closest friend stood beside him.
“Aye, and her cargo will keep us fed until the harvest.”
John didn’t have quite as much height as Calum, but they shared the family’s tendency toward auburn hair and blue eyes. “I’m thinking more of the riches we’ll gain once she’s ours.”
Calum lowered the spyglass and grinned. “Our people will prosper and then we can kick our heels up and enjoy the spoils.”
“Do ye think ye can ever walk away? The sea’s yer mistress.”
“True.” Calum watched the sun kiss the western horizon. “We’ll not have time to think on it until the keep is finished and our clan is strong.”
“I still dunna understand it.”
“What?”
“Why yer father commissioned ye Chief of Raasay, but kept all the riches in Lewis.”
“’Twas not me place to question Da’s decision—only to honor it.”
“Aye, but he just kicked ye out to make a go with the poor souls on the island.”
“He gave me his trust.” Calum ran his hand along the worn rail of his ship. “Besides, I received a fair bit more than a second son could hope for.”
“If we dunna starve, ’twill be a blessing.”
“If we plunder that ship, we’ll no’ starve.”
***
The tap on her door roused Anne from sleep. “Supper, my lady.”
The thought of food brought on a heave. She gulped back burning bile and tottered across the floor. Cracking open the door, she tried to focus on the captain, but his smile rose and fell with the rolling waves. Swallowing, she leaned heavily on the latch. “I am afraid I have not yet found my sea legs. Will you consider it discourteous if I excuse myself?”
“Your color is a bit pale. It can take a few days for a land maiden to gain her legs.” He bowed. “I shall have my cabin boy bring you a tray.”
“Thank you.”
Anne lay back on her bed and stared at the wooden rafters. The swells of the ocean had increased since she’d cried herself to sleep. She hugged her pillow and closed her eyes, trying to will away the sickness.
Anne sat up when the boy unlocked her door and pushed inside. He set a silver tray on the table and lit the lamp on her wall. “Ye might want to eat quick, milady. The sea’s angry tonight and your meal’s likely to skip over the table lips and fall to the floor.”
“My thanks.” Anne eyed the latch. “Pardon me, but does everyone have a key to my stateroom?”
“Just the captain. He gave it to me to fetch your meal.”
When the boy left, she locked the door and stared at the delightful prospect of overcooked vegetables and boiled fish. The ship listed starboard, then to port, and the tray crashed upside down. Crouching to tidy the mess, she pushed the tray up against the wall, but eyed the wine. Still corked in a small glass bottle, Anne pulled out the stopper.
She scrunched her face when she held it to her nose. The sharp bouquet indicated its cheap vintage. She looked at the goblet that lay on its side, covered with white sauce. Shrugging, she held the bottle to her lips. ’Tis only me and perhaps it will take the edge off the sickness.
Anne took a sip and let the tart liquid slide across her tongue. The wine tasted better than it smelled—though not a vintage Titchfield House would serve. Imagining she would need to become accustomed to a great many new experiences, she tilted the bottle and drank again. In no time, the wine warmed her insides and numbed the pain, both in her gut and in her heart.
When the bottle was empty, she managed to remove her stomacher and untie her stays. It would be a long voyage without Hanna. Anne ran her fingers along her unbound ribs and shook out the skirts of her shift. Free of binding laces, she could finally breathe and crawl under the warmth of woolen bedclothes. She willed sleep to take her to a place where earl’s daughters were not traded for riches and lands.
***
Anne’s eyes flew open when a blast shook her awake. She swiped a hand across her forehead. Am I dreaming? The ship’s floorboards groaned, followed by a raucous thud and a shout. “Fire!” A roaring boom shook the galleon.
Cannons.
Hurried footsteps clamored overhead. The quartermaster bellowed commands, his voice high pitched and quick, like a rooster with its head on the block.
Her skin prickled, she couldn’t breathe. The walls closed in.
A cannon blast shook her bed. Heart hammering, Anne threw back the bedclothes and raced for her cabin door. She stumbled into the empty corridor. The ship rocked as she staggered toward the main deck. She braced her hands on the wall to keep herself upright.
She pushed the outer door, but it held fast. Leaning her shoulder into it, she shoved. A harsh gale caught it and flung the door open, sending her sprawling onto the deck.
Blinking, Anne steadied herself on the rail. Raindrops splashed cold on her skin. Her shift clung to her legs like a flapping sail. Shivering, she pushed the hair from her face and peered into the darkness. Sailors scurried in every direction while the quartermaster delivered a ceaseless barrage of shouts. “Climb the crows nest with your musket, Davey boy…Ready your cutlasses men…Unfurl the jib…”
Her heart nearly burst through her chest when an earsplitting boom lit up the sea less than a league away. She crouched and threw her arms over her head. A cannonball careened into the water mere feet from where she stood. Anne looked across the rail and ice filled her veins. A carrack bore down on them, flying a Jolly Roger—the unmistakable skull and crossbones of a pirate ship.
Captain Fortescue barreled down from the quarterdeck and threw an arm around Anne’s shoulder. “Get back to your cabin. Lock the door. Open it for no one.”
She leaned into his warmth. “We’re under attack?”
“We’ll outrun them.”
“But they’re on a course to cross our bow.”
The captain’s thin lips told her he was well aware of the pirate ship’s strategy. Outrunning the heavier carrack would not be an option. He strengthened his grip and led her back through the corridor. “Remember what I said. Lock. The. Door.”
He pushed Anne into her stateroom with such force, she stumbled against her trunk. She reached out and turned the lock with trembling fingers, then wrapped herself in her dressing gown, damp shift and all.
The galleon rocked beneath her feet. She turned full circle and hugged herself. Each breath shuddered. Being locked in her stateroom was far worse than standing on the deck. At least out there she could see what was happening. With every earsplitting blast, the ship quaked. Her trunks jostled. Water slapped against the hull, and her blood ran cold. She honestly could not swim.
How could the baron abandon me on a galleon with pirates sailing these waters? He most certainly has not appraised well in my eyes. The gutless miser will have much to answer for when I reach Alnwick. Leaving me alone without Hanna. And then there’s my uncle, the mastermind of this whole marriage scheme—curse him too!
A cannon boomed. Anne’s entire body jolted. She dashed to her bed, her heart pummeling her chest.
What if the brigands took the ship? Anne darted to her smallest trunk and threw back the lid. She pulled out an ornate wooden box and opened the hasp, then dumped the contents on the bed—her decree of marriage and the few precious jewels she owned. Using her fingernail to locate the string hidden in a groove, she pulled away the false bottom. Pushing aside the shillings, she stared at the ivory handle and slim blade of her father’s dagger.
The cannon volley reverberated through the ship. The acrid smell of sulfur wafted into her chamber. Anne’s stare shot to the ceiling. Feet pounded the floor above. Men screamed in agony.
She folded the marriage decree and replaced the false bottom, then shoved her precious keepsakes on top and stuffed it under her mattress. Jumping at an explosion that sounded like a cannonball crashing through the deck, Anne snatched up her knife and crouched upon the corner of her bed. Her gaze fixed on door, her seasickness replaced by uncontrollable trembling as the battle raged around her.
Surely I will die this eve. Dear God, have mercy on my soul.
***
The unending night wore on with sounds of battle that Anne had only heard tale of, tucked away in Titchfield House. How she wanted to be back there now, in the arms of her sisters and Hanna.
When the echoes of fighting stopped, an eerie hush filled her chamber. Anne sat up, gooseflesh rising on her arms. The knife in her hand slipped against her perspiration and she tightened her grip.
Footsteps plodded down the wooden planks of the corridor. They stopped outside her door. The latch moved. Anne did not mistake the hiss of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. She drew in a ragged breath.
Something slammed into the door. Her heart flew to her throat. Another thud. Anne pressed her shoulders into the corner and steadied her knife. The door bowed and groaned against a clashing blow. Hinges gave way and the door clattered to the deck.
A rugged man stared through the dimly lit doorway. Sword drawn, with a cropped copper beard, he glared at her with fierce, steely eyes. She was certain he could kill her with that look.
Anne held up her knife, shaking like a sapling in the wind.
“Holy Mother Mary.” He clattered across the door and sheathed his sword. “What in the blazes are ye doing here?”
She clasped her free hand over her knife to steady the trembling.
His shirt splattered with blood, his face dark, he took another step toward her, holding her gaze. “I’ll no’ hurt ye, lass.”
Anne tried to push herself deeper into the corner, but the walls trapped her. He moved closer, his eyes searing into hers. She glanced beyond him, breaking his stare. His powerful legs strained against his red plaid kilt with one more step. Over the scents of sweat and blood, she caught the whiff of rosemary.
“What is yer name?”
Name? What should I say? “A-Anne.”
“Just Anne?”
She pursed her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing her true identity.
“We-ell you’re no’ Anne Boleyn, that’s a certainty. She’s dead and her daughter’s on the throne.” His eyes glanced to the dagger trembling in her hand. “Ye think ye can take the likes of me with that wee knife?”
He towered over her little bed and Anne craned her neck. Her stomach squeezed. Those piercing eyes stared down at her from shoulders as broad as her largest trunk. He held out his hand. “Now be a good lass and give it to me.”
She licked her lips and stared at the blood staining his outstretched hand. Anne could not surrender without a fight. Gritting her teeth, she launched herself forward, aiming the dagger at his heart.
He snatched her wrist faster than she could blink.
A sharp pain wrenched her wrist and the knife dropped to the floor. The Highlander shoved her back onto the bed and shook his head. “Now what did ye have to go and do that for? I told ye to hand it over.” He bent down and picked up the blade, turning it over in his hand appreciatively. “If you’re going to be hostile, I guess I’ll have to put it in me sporran for safekeeping.”
She glanced down to the white fur pouch he wore across the front of his kilt, watching as he slid her father’s dagger inside. “W-what did you do with Captain Fortescue?”
“The former captain of this ship?” The Scot patted his sporran as if the pelt were ermine. “I’m afraid he’s on a wee boat headed back to shore.”
“Of all the lawlessness. You mean to say that you tossed him overboard in a skiff?”
“Aye. At least I didna kill the bastard. He was a darned bit ornery ’bout it too.”
“You say that as if pillaging and casting the captain overboard was a minor inconvenience.”
A shadow darkened his face. “Oh no, ’twas not minor at all.”
Anne stiffened her back. All her life she’d heard “my lady” when addressed, but then, she hadn’t informed him of her title.
“Actually, you’re the inconvenience.”
“Me?”
His finger twitched across the hilt of the gargantuan sword strapped to his hip. “Ye see, we’ve launched the skiffs and I’m at a loss as to what we should do with ye.”
Anne’s mouth grew dry. Would he make her walk the plank? Would he take her to the hold and tie her down to be gnawed to death by the ship’s rats? A clammy chill swept over her skin. Surely, he would respect her virtue…wouldn’t he? “I-if you return me to Portsmouth, I should be able to find my way home.” She most assuredly was not going to continue on toward Alnwick or the baron.
“Portsmouth, aye?” He took a seat at the end of her bed, putting Anne at eyelevel. “You would have us sail back into the mouth of the dragon herself, would ye?” He threw his head back and gave a hearty laugh, unlike someone bent on murder. “Nay. Ye will have to stay with us unsavory privateers for a wee bit longer.”
Anne clutched her dressing gown tighter around her neck. Privateers? He’s a filthy pirate and a devilish one at that.
A tall man in a dark green and blue kilt appeared in the doorway and spoke in a foreign tongue. Gaelic. She knew a little Gaelic. His eyes drifted to Anne and back to her captor, who responded in the same guttural tones—they’re talking about me. The pirate’s gaze softened when he turned to her. “John will see yer door is repaired.” He surveyed trunks that lined her wall. “I suppose all of these are yers?”
There rested the entirety of possessions. “Yes.”
“It looks like ye were planning to stay—wherever ye were going.”
Anne stared at her hands and whispered, “Yes.”
The scent of rosemary grew stronger when the Highlander leaned in and eyed her. His rough fingers brushed a bronze brooch that clasped his plaid at his shoulder. “I take it ye weren’t too happy ’bout it.”
Anne chose not to reply to the gentle tone in his voice. Her happiness was none of his concern, though in truth this diversion postponed wedded bliss with her antiquated baron.
“Either way. Ye’ll be delayed for a bit.”
He headed toward the doorway, and she reached out a trembling hand. “Wait.”
He stopped.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Northwest.”
Of course he wouldn’t be specific. “What should I call you?”
He turned, his powerful frame outlined in the doorway by flickering firelight from above. Those blue eyes as fierce as they had looked when he first knocked down the door. “Captain.”
Dear God in heaven, praises to you that Hanna was not forced to endure this nightmare.
Anne slipped back into her corner and clutched the pillow while he walked over the door and clomped though the corridor. The pirate did not have the decency to tell her his name. But then, she hadn’t been exactly forthcoming about hers either.
What was she to do until her door was repaired? She tossed the pillow aside, and levered the door back into place. Using all her strength, she pushed and shoved one of her trunks until it blocked the entry. It wasn’t ideal, but would suffice to hold through the night. At least the racket would wake her if anyone tried to enter.