CHAPTER Twelve
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.
Mara looked up from her work at the wreath then scurried over to him. “The wood’s dry, ready for the bonfire. The fish are cleaned and soaking in the hold, m’laird.” She pointed to the net off the shore used to keep the seafood fresh.
Calum patted her shoulder. “Excellent. Ye have everything organized.”
“Lady Anne has taught me well.”
“Then it has been a blessing to have her with us.”
“I miss John so terribly.” Mara frowned. “But I dunna want her to leave us. She is such a fine lady and a pleasure to be around. I never thought an English woman could be as sweet as she.”
“We will all miss her, I’m afraid.”
Calum looked up the hill. With the day’s work done, the clan men and women were clamoring down to the beach. Bran had hold of Lady Anne’s hand, hurrying her along as if they were late for a wedding. Friar Pat scuttled down the hill after them with his robes flapping in the wind. Calum and Mara chuckled and moved to greet them.
Calum reached for Anne’s hand. She blessed him with a brilliant smile. “Bran, ’tis a wonder the lady made it down the hill in one piece with ye dragging her. Did ye no’ remember she’s recovering from a twisted ankle?”
The boy gaped and looked at Anne. “Are ye all right milady? I didna mean to rush ye.”
“I’m quite invigorated. This must be a special celebration indeed.”
The friar waddled in beside them. “Aye. Beltane used to be a pagan tradition, but we Scottish Christians have embraced it as the celebration of rebirth.” He clasped his hands together and looked toward the heavens. “Praise God, winter is behind us.”
Calum gestured to the crowd gathering around the fire. “Come milady. I would be honored if ye would stand beside me as I light the fire to commence the festival.”
“Aye, ’tis nearly dusk,” Mara said.
***
Anne’s insides fluttered when Calum strode across the stony beach to meet her. Dressed in his finest kilt and doublet, his powerful frame made all the lords at court pale in comparison. She closed her eyes and cemented the memory in her mind. She never wanted to forget her gallant captor or her time on Raasay.
Anne allowed Calum pull her toward the enormous pile of wood and sticks as the clan watched. He struck the flint to light the torch, but the wind from the sound snuffed it before the flame took hold. Anne cupped her hands around the ironwork. “Try again.”
Calum struck again and the torch burned bright. He gave her a wink and held it high. “With this flame I light the Beltane fire. May God favor us and make our women and our crops fertile. With this flame we will relight the fires of Brochel!”
The crowd roared a raucous cheer. Calum circled the stack of wood, lighting the kindling around the bottom.
Bagpipes and fiddling filled the air, while children chased each other around the maypole. Calum placed his hand in the small of Anne’s back. “We let the wee ones dance first. The real dancing starts after we sup.”
She loved the way his eyes sparkled, reflecting firelight. “Oh? That sounds intriguing.”
“It is.” Calum spread his tartan over the smooth stones. “Will ye share me plaid?”
Warmed by the raging fire, Anne sat beside him. “Tell me more about Beltane. The friar said it has pagan roots.”
“Aye. ’Twas the most important ritual to our ancestors. It honored the sun god, and if he was pleased there would be a bountiful harvest. When the fire burns down, unmarried couples seal a promise by jumping over the coals together.” He looked away and fingered the fringe of his plaid.
“Pardon?”
“They say on Beltane all marital restraints were lifted and women could lay with whomever they wished for the night.”
The flesh on Anne’s entire body prickled with heat. Did she just hear him correctly? “I’ll wager that caused a great many problems.”
Calum picked up a smooth stone and rubbed his thumb across it. “I’m sure it did. ’Tis why it is only a legend.” He looked at her with a crooked smile. “If me wife ever lay with anyone but me, I think I would kill her, and the rutting bastard too.”
Anne cleared her throat. “Well, ’tis a good thing the Scots have done away with that practice.”
Norman strolled over carrying three tankards of ale. “What do ye think of Beltane, Lady Anne?”
She accepted the tankard, but scooted a tad closer to Calum, eyeing Norman with uncertainty. “’Tis a merry festival indeed.”
Norman looked at her for a moment, his expression puzzling, but then he bowed and sat on the opposite side of Calum. “I think it is time for me to take a wife.”
Anne’s attention piqued.
“Have ye someone in mind?” Calum asked.
“Nay. I would like leave to visit Ruairi on Lewis.”
Calum narrowed his eyes. “Ye think you can behave yerself? I’ll never live it down if ye sail over there and fall into yer cups.”
Norman hung his head. “Ye ken. As I said before, sleeping on The Golden Sun has given me time to think.” He held up his tankard. “From now on, ale will be the strongest spirit that passes me lips.”
“Very well. After John returns, we will make arrangements.”
Anne watched Calum swirl his fingertips over the rounded stones. They would see John any day now. She closed her eyes, but the bonfire still blazed behind her lids. She wanted to imagine what her new life would be like, but all she could see were the rugged lands of Raasay and the stone walls of Brochel Castle with its handsome laird presiding in the courtyard. The vibrant laird who had just told her on this single eve in ancient Scotland, the laws of matrimony could be cast aside. From the depths of her soul, Anne wished it could be so….but alas…
What would the baron do when he received word of Anne’s ransom? Would he pay? Would he pursue Calum ruthlessly until he and his entire clan were wiped from the island? Would Lord Wharton accept her now she’d spent weeks among the “barbarians”?
Calum didn’t give Anne much time to mull over her unanswered questions. He jumped up as the games began. “I must toss the caber.”
“And what is that, do tell?” Anne asked, standing as well.
“Tis a one-hundred-fifty pound log, or there abouts. The man who tosses it the farthest wins.”
She chuckled. “You mean tosses it without squashing himself?”
“Aye, well there’s that, too.”
She clapped a hand to her chest. “Don’t tell me men have been killed?”
“I’ve only seen it once, when I was a lad.” He shook his head. “’Twas a very poor harvest that year.”
Anne glanced at the friar who’d moved in beside her. “They take this festival seriously, yes?”
“Aye, milady, they do.” He pulled her into the crowd. “Come stand here with me where ye’ll be out of harm’s way.”
Anne thought Calum would birth a calf, he bellowed so loudly when he tossed the log. It looked to be as long as one of the rafters in the keep—as big around, too.
As he predicted, Calum won the caber toss and the stone throw. His team also won the tug-o-war, but he was bested by William in the test for the swiftest. William had long, slender legs, and ran like he was fleeing a mob of archers bent on skewering him.
“He’s very fast,” Anne said, applauding the victor.
“He’s Calum’s runner in battle. None faster than William,” the friar agreed.
Anne gaped when the women stepped up and had a go with the bow and arrows. Though Calum won that contest, too, she had never seen women included in any sort of competitions. They were quite adept. Must have had practice at some time.
As the games ended, Mara stood on the driftwood and clanged the supper bell. The feast laid out rivaled some Anne had seen at court, at least for the sheer quantity of food.
“It all comes from the Sound of Raasay,” Calum said, stepping behind her.
“I thought you told me your people were starving.”
“We eat well in late spring when the fish are running. Winter’s the worst—and pickled herring gets awfully dreary by February.”
Anne reclined against a large log of driftwood and watched. People sat in groups, some large with children and grandparents, and others small. The beat of excitement touched everyone. The snow had gone, and the promise of warmer weather swirled on the breeze. With Calum stretched out beside her, she felt like she belonged. Of course, she’d had her home at Titchfield House, and belonged to the Wriothesley family by birth, but never had she experienced a bond as strong as the one that wrapped around her this night.
The pipers started again and she wanted to dance. Calum must have sensed her eagerness and reached for her hand. “Will ye dance the maypole with me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Calum flashed a toothy, wicked grin and led her toward the ring of dancers. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “The pole signifies male forces and the wreath beneath is female. The men dance the reel after the women. When the music ends, they choose if they want to be caught—’tis the lassie’s choice.”
Anne hesitated. Would he tempt her? God, she hoped so. Anne shook her head, queen’s knees, she must hope not. Since her injury, she had lasted this long fighting her urges to wrap her arms around his masculine shoulders and kiss him. She would turn to jelly if he kissed her again. She knew it, and what would old Lord Wharton think if he discovered she had lusted after her captor?
The high-stepping reel interrupted Anne’s worries. She looked to the side and saw Mara sitting with Friar Pat. They both watched her. Anne gulped and studied the feet of the other dancers. She moved hers in kind, jumping in the air, pointing her toes and leaping sideways around the pole of masculinity.
Calum danced directly across the circle with the men. He focused on her, dancing with grace, unlike the bearish force he’d shown earlier in the games. His eyes did not stray from her. Anne’s breathing quickened. His powerful legs expertly executed the steps, and Anne was glad her skirts covered her wayward feet. She merely had to keep up with the beat bellowed by the bagpipes. Calum turned his back to her and leapt high. His kilt flicked up. Anne blinked. She couldn’t deny it, she’d seen the white alabaster of a rock-solid bum cheek. Her heart thundered in her ears. She could no longer hear the music.
In her mind only she and Calum existed, dancing together on the beach. His kilt flicked again, enticing her to see more of what lay beneath. His eyes seduced her, begging Anne to give in to her curiosity.
The pace changed and the woman next to her lightly tapped Anne’s shoulder. “We dance to the right now.”
Anne followed the crowd, the tune of the pipes resounding in her ears. The men leapt forward, mixing with the women. Calum’s masculine scent—spicy, laced with sweat—electrified her and his hot breath caressed her neck. This was the most seductive dance in which she had ever partaken. When his hands grasped her waist, shivers coursed over her skin. “Ye can run from me now, lass.”
Anne’s head spun. Run? She didn’t want to run, she wanted to turn and press her body against him. “I…”
She tried to pull away, but her heart would not allow it. With a snap of her head, she whipped around and faced him. With the most stirring grin she’d ever seen cross his face, Calum lifted her in his arms and twirled around the maypole. Together they spun in complete union . Anne threw her head back and closed her eyes. If only she could stay there in his arms the entire night. If she had not been wearing layers of heavy skirts, she would have wrapped her legs around him and cradled his head to her breast.
The music stopped. Calum’s chest heaved as he squeezed her against his body, gazing into her eyes with a longing that made her feel as if she were the only woman on the beach. His eyes filled with hunger, suggesting he wanted to kiss her and more. Anne’s breath stuttered, her body molded against his. His tongue shot out and wet his bottom lip. He slid her down his muscular chest. And then she felt it. Her mons slowly slid over his rigid manhood. A hot gush of longing coiled tight between her hips.
Calum lowered his head as if he would kiss her. But he leaned down to her ear, his breath fluttering through her hair. “Mayhap we should make our way back to the plaid.”
Anne didn’t trust herself to speak. She froze when her bottom brushed against his manhood. He let out an audible groan. The crowd applauded as Calum looped his arm through Anne’s elbow and led her to his blanket.
Fanning her face, Anne willed her heart to resume a more sedate cadence. “That was far more vigorous than a volta.”
“Aye, milady. I think we’d best remain spectators for the duration of the night.”
A pang of disappointment needled at her, but she knew Calum was right. Neither one of them could control their urges.
Norman filled their tankards with ale. Anne overheard him whisper in Calum’s ear, “’Tis a good thing John will be here soon. Her ladyship has ye enchanted.”
Anne pretended not to hear and reached for her cup. Perhaps a few tots of ale would do them both good. She practically guzzled the potent liquid and reached for the pitcher. She offered some to Calum and he held up his tankard. “There’s a good lass, I mean lady.”
He smelled delicious as she leaned over him and poured. “I think a bit of ale will be good for the both of us this night.”
His eyes trailed down the length of her body. He raised the tankard to his lips and drank. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he watched the dancers. Anne watched him. He seemed much more subdued than before. Had she caused him to lose his enthusiasm? She wanted him to have a good time—it was his festival. She thought to ask Bran to escort her back to the castle, but Calum’s hand inched across the tartan. His rough fingers brushed hers.
Anne glanced at him, but he kept his eyes averted. He clasped his fingers over hers and leaned toward her. “I wish we lived in another time.”
“As do I.” She lowered her voice. “Would you like me to retire so you can dance with the others?”
Pain filled his eyes. “I want ye to stay put. I’ll escort ye to your chamber when ’tis time.”
Smiling, Anne spread her skirts over her legs and nestled against his warm chest. He wanted her beside him. There was no place on earth she’d rather be.