CHAPTER Twenty-five
Calum wasted no time building his strength. Once his body gained some real sustenance, he could stand without swooning and now most of his stamina had returned. Boars ballocks, if anyone had seen him collapse on the bed, Mara and the friar would have tied him down and forced him to rest for a week or more. But this was no time to lie abed and nurse his wounds.
He’d been up for near two weeks and had resumed practicing in the courtyard with his men. The unsavory expectation of battle hung heavy in the air. All must be in peak condition. Though the lash marks on his back were still weeping, Calum would not let them cripple him. He sparred with John, willing the pain to seep into his blood and empower him.
The strength in his injured wrist had all but returned. He grasped his claymore with both hands as they circled. John lunged first. Calum darted aside and spun, whacking his opponent in the arse with the flat side of his weapon. “Bloody hell, Urquhart, don’t ye be going easy on me. We’ve a war to fight.”
John whipped around with his sword over his head and sped in with a downward blow. Calum raised his claymore and blocked it. He shifted his weight and swung his foot into John’s path. The big man’s feet flew up and he landed on his back. “Blessed Mary, Calum. We’re just sparring.”
“Aye.” Calum pointed his sword across the courtyard, eyeing his men. “This will be a battle to the death and every man must fight for his home and his womenfolk—’cause if ye do not, that thieving bastard will take it all. He’ll cut everyone’s throat and laugh whilst ye bleed out.”
Calum’s eyes snapped back to John. “Now fight me like you’re defending Mara.”
“And me unborn child.”
Calum lowered his sword. “What?”
John grinned and thumped his chest. “Me wife’s with child.”
“Thank the heavens and all the stars. Congratulations, John.” But he’d make a toast later. Calum eyed him and reassumed his defensive stance, knees bent, sword ready. “Now, cousin, fight me as if yer wife’s and yer unborn child’s lives are at stake.”
Fire flashed behind John’s eyes. Bellowing like a bull, he barreled in and swung his claymore. His wrist not quite fully healed, Calum struggled to defend the jarring blows and brandished his sword with both hands. The iron weapons clashed and screeched as the blades slid down their shafts with neither swordsman willing to back down. In a battle of muscle, the two men met face to face as their hilts touched. Sweat streamed into Calum’s eyes as he tried to push John away, but his cousin planted his foot into his gut and shoved. Calum stumbled and tripped, landing on his back.
A million sharp knives drove into his flesh like the teeth of a shark. Calum bellowed. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. How could his body be so bloody weak? His feeble flesh betrayed him.
“Calum?” John kneeled at his side. “Are ye hurt?”
“Of course I’m no’ hurt,” Calum yelled. He shook his head and tried to clear his vision. Blast it all, he would not show his weakness to his men. Calum lumbered to his feet and swayed, but he held up his sword, challenging John for another bout.
John tapped the tip of his blade against a rock. “I think ye need to coach the guard. They’re looking a bit scraggly, they are.”
Calum glanced over his shoulder at the lines of sparring partners. John’s suggestion did have merit. “Ye aren’t going easy on me, ’cause if ye are, I’ll kick yer arse all the way to Applecross.”
“No, m’laird. Ye’ve plum tuckered me out.”
Calum jutted out his chin. “All right then.” He sheathed his sword and strode through his troop of fighting men. He picked apart each man’s technique with a discerning eye until the sentry sounded the trumpet from atop the wall walk.
Running out the gate with his men, Calum looked toward the sound. William MacLeod stood in a galley and waved his arms. Calum raced down to the beach as the mid-sized boat sailed into the shore. William jumped over the side and splashed his way through the surf. “A bloody English galleon just rounded the isle of Mull.”
Calum’s gaze shot to John. As they’d thought, Wharton had commandeered the big guns. “We have a day, mayhap two.”
“And ye can bet she’ll be laden with fighting men.”
“Gather round, lads.” Calum turned and faced his men with the surf pounding behind. “With a galleon, they’ll have to sail round the Isle of Skye. When they reach Trotternish, let them think they’ve caught us unawares.”
Bran held up his hand. “How will we do that with two ships moored in the bay?”
“First, we’ll sail The Golden Sun to the cove at Applecross. She’ll be hidden from sight—they won’t even see her from our cove. We’ll keep her sails unfurled and when they attack, we’ll flank them at full speed.”
“And what of the Sea Dragon?” Ian asked.
Calum’s stomach clenched at the name of his most beloved ship. “She’ll be asleep in our bay. Her sails will be furled tight and we’ll no’ light the lamps, but the cannons will be manned.” He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. “The bastards will nay make it to our shore.”
Calum knew the sea and knew his plan was sound, but he needed his brother’s reinforcements. He held his hand to his forehead to shield the sun from his eyes and looked northward. Where is that blasted Ruairi? Norman should have returned by now. I need him at the helm on The Golden Sun.
Calum had eighty fighting men. He could use twice that and Ruairi had hundreds.
Cheering, the men punched their fists in the air and bounded up the hill to share the news with their families.
John hung back with Calum. “How do ye want to divide the men?”
Calum drew the heel of his boot across the stony beach. “With Norman away, ye’ll have to sail The Golden Sun to Applecross.”
John’s lips thinned, but he nodded. Calum knew his cousin would want to stay close to Mara, especially now she was carrying their first child, but Calum needed him on The Golden Sun more. He placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Ye’ll be safer on the galleon.”
“’Tis no’ my safety that concerns me.”
“Mara will be tucked away in the keep. They’ll no’ come near her.”
John ground his fist into his palm. “If they touch her, I’ll cut off their ballocks and make the varlet’s eat them.”
“As will I, cousin.” Calum started up the beach. “Go. Choose yer crew. I want ye to sail at dusk.”
Calum’s breath labored as he climbed the steep slope to the keep. He hated the weakness that invaded his muscles. It could not sap his strength, not now when he needed to defend his clan. On the other side of Skye, a galleon approached and he knew Wharton was aboard that ship. The man was too full of hate and selfish pride to recline while others blasted cannons at Raasay.
Yes. Wharton would be there so he could claim another victory against Scotland. Calum would not allow the baron to succeed. He would send the bastard to his grave and then find a way to make amends with Lady Anne. He’d win her even if it took a decade.
Calum found Friar Pat tending his plot of dirt.
The friar dusted his hands as he rose. “Ye look like ye’ve been bludgeoned to within an inch of yer life.”
“How easily ye forget. I have.”
“Ye need rest.”
“’Twill have to wait until we blast the English out of the Sound of Raasay.”
“They’ve been spotted, then?”
“Aye.” Calum rubbed the back of his neck. “I need ye to mix a tincture for the pain—something that will no’ sap me wits. Can ye do it?”
“There aren’t many options—willow bark tea.”
“That’s a start.”
“The best option’s a honey poultice wrapped with damp cloths.”
Calum hated the sticky, slimy feel of the friar’s poultices but he knew Patrick was right. “Prepare enough mixture for two applications. I’ll take it on the ship with me.”
“Should I come along? I can look after ye then.”
“Nay. The women need ye here.” Calum drew in a deep breath and grasped the friar’s shoulders. “If we should fail, take the women and children to the north of the island and wait for Ruairi. Me brother will come—he may miss the battle—but he’ll be here.”
“Ye will nay fail.”
“I will no’, but I need ye to promise me ye’ll care for the families should something go awry.”
“Of course ye have me word.” Patrick stepped in and grasped Calum’s shoulder. “I’ve listened to yer moans for near three days. If any of what ye said is true—and by the state of yer back I believe it is—that man is nay fit to live. Send the English murderer to his maker, and then bring back our Lady Anne.”
The hair on the back of Calum’s neck tingled as if brushed by an eagle feather. “I intend to.”
Anne remained ever present in his mind. He would never forget how the baron had slapped her, nor would he forget her strength when she stood there and took it without so much as a whimper.
If he had only given in to his heart when she’d asked him to claim her on their last night in the forest. He’d wanted to enter her and make her his, but his prideful heart would not allow him. He should have feigned her death and dealt with Wharton’s ire after. At least she would be beside him now.
If Calum could only have the chance to see her again, he would take her in his arms and cover her mouth with his. He’d knead his fingers into her back and when she begged for more, he’d slip his hand around and caress those milky white breasts that strained so proudly against her bodice.
Calum’s entire body went rigid when he pictured himself tasting her, running his tongue around the dark pink skin at the tip of her breast. He wanted to make her moan with pleasure again and again. He wanted to be the one to take her to the pinnacle of passion between a man and a woman. Why had they been destined to meet? Their souls screamed to be together, yet all the forces in the world kept them apart.
Calum closed the door to his chamber and latched it. Her trunks still lined the wall. Traces of Anne were everywhere. He opened his hand and revealed the kerchief and his heart squeezed. Taking in a deep breath, he pictured her standing by the hearth completely naked.
When they’d danced at the Beltane festival the length of her body had slid down his, igniting every inch of his skin. His body had responded with a raging fire beneath his kilt. In the wood before she’d ridden into Carlisle, she had turned to jelly in his arms, stripped away her highborn demeanor and had revealed the depths of her own passion. She loved him and he desired her with every fiber of his being. He ached with a desperate need for release. Frantic passion pushed through his swollen, rigid flesh. He could not ignore his burning desire.
Calum unbuckled his kilt and let it drop to the floor. His manhood jutted against his linen shirt. He imagined Anne’s perfect breasts as his fingers brushed the length of his cock. He gasped and his head dropped back. He wrapped his hand around his manhood and closed his eyes, envisioning Anne with her gown dropping to the floor as his kilt just had. Her ivory skin would glow amber in the firelight. With breasts and shapely hips swaying, she would reach out to him. He would eagerly step in to meet her. Anne would shutter her eyes, lift her chin and part her rosy lips for him. She would seduce him with her every movement.
His hand milked his cock back and forth as he pictured the triangle that concealed her treasure. He had put his fingers there, slid them up into the hot, wet core of her body. She’d parted her legs for him and gave in to her basal needs. Calum worked his hand faster. He could feel himself inside her, thrusting. A cry caught in the back of his throat. In seconds his body shuddered with his release, spilling his seed onto the floorboards.
Panting, he dropped his hand. Yet again he had succumbed to the weakness of his flesh. He needed to win Anne’s heart, to prove worthy of her love. Would she return to Raasay after she’d watched the soldiers drag him to the whipping post, stripped bare, humiliated for all to see?
Calum pressed his palms against his face and raked his fingers through his hair. He could not live knowing she suffered under that tyrant’s roof. He must see her at least one more time. He bent down and picked up the kerchief she had made. He held it to his nose and inhaled. Closing his eyes, a trace of her scent remained. If she wouldn’t have him, so be it, but he had to offer her a chance to escape Wharton.
***
Riding with Rorie and his band of ten Douglas men, Anne could now travel during daylight hours. With a little coaching from the older man, Anne had her Scottish bonnet pulled down over her forehead and pasted on a venomous scowl whenever riders came near.
Though the sun had not yet set, the horses needed rest and they stopped to make camp at Loch Long. Surrounded by rolling hills, the Eilean Donan Castle stood guard in the distance at the confluence of three great sea lochs. Anne remembered passing it when she had traveled south with Calum and his men. He’d told her the castle was a MacKenzie seat and it was best to give them a wide berth. Remembering that Dougal MacKenzie had not been overly accommodating when they took the horses at Applecross, she understood Calum’s reasoning.
Anne dismounted and tested her ankle. Stepping on it, a dull ache spread from her calf to her knee—definitely an improvement. Fortunately, Rorie had caught one of the fallen English soldier’s horses for her to ride and several days in the saddle had provided needed relief. She had also taken an English sword from the battle site. Smaller and lighter than a claymore, she pulled it from the scabbard she’d tied to her saddle.
Anne turned the weapon over in her hand and sliced a practice swing through the air. The iron hissed with the downward blow. Never having wielded a sword in her life, she thought her first attempt showed promise, until Rorie eyed her with his fists on his hips. “What do ye think you’re doing with an Englishman’s weapon?”
“I took it at the castle. I need to be able to defend myself.”
“Well, ye’ll no’ be able to fend off much with that. A rabbit, perhaps.”
Anne swung it again, trying to make her effort look like Calum in the courtyard. “Why? ’Tis the same weapon the cavalry use throughout England.”
“Aye, but they’re men.”
“You think I cannot learn to wield a sword because I am a woman?”
He chuckled. “Ye can learn to wield it, aye. But ye’ll no’ be able to hold onto it in a fight. Yer bones are too fine.” He drew his long claymore from his belt. “Let me show ye what I mean. Now come at me.”
“You’re not serious. I could hurt you.”
He shook his head and beckoned her with his fingers. “Ye’ve surely seen men spar before, come now, lass.”
Anne looked at her sword and recalled how easily Calum had wrenched the dagger out of her hand when he burst through her stateroom door. That quick twist of her wrist had hurt. She wouldn’t let that happen this time. Grasping the sword with both hands, she raised it over her head and lunged at him with a downward slash.
Rorie deflected the blow with an effortless swing of his arm. The sword flew out of her hands and somersaulted through the air. To the laughs of the guards, Anne snapped her head around and narrowed her eyes at Rorie’s smug smirk.
At least the sword hadn’t hit anyone, or the horses. The muscles in her shoulders tensed as Rorie’s son, Hamish, retrieved her sword and playacted her pathetic attempt to attack. The men roared with laughter. Anne clenched her fists. This was nothing to laugh about. More than once her life had been threatened. It made good sense for her to learn to use a weapon.
“Silence!” Rorie shoved his son aside and wrenched the sword from his hand. “What are ye standing around for? Build a fire and hunt us down some supper.”
He turned to Anne with an apologetic frown, but tossed the sword aside. “If ye are hell bent on carrying a weapon, ye need something a bit less cumbersome.” He bent down and pulled the dirk from the sheath worn outside his knee-length hose. “Ye need the deadly blade all men use when locked in battle, and being a lassie, a dirk isn’t hard to hide or carry.”
Anne nodded and accepted the knife. She rolled her fingers over the iron basket weave hilt. “Will you show me how to use it?”
“If you’re attacked, the first thing ye need to do is center yer weight.” He demonstrated by spreading his legs and bending his knees. Anne followed. He chuckled. “Tis a good thing I’m a married gentleman. The sight of ye in those snug fitting trews is enough to boil any man’s blood.”
“But Calum said I was safer traveling dressed this way.”
“Aye, but if one were to take a good look at ye, there’s no mistaking yer gender.” He sliced his hands through the air. “Back to the lesson—Once yer weight is centered, hold the dirk in yer fist with the blade pointing down. That gives the greatest leverage for a downward strike.”
Anne copied Rorie’s movement and slashed the knife through the air. He showed her the tender spots on a man and how to kill a soldier wearing armor. By the end of the lesson, Anne’s confidence had grown tenfold.
Rorie led her to his horse and reached inside his saddlebag. “I always carry a spare. If ye ask me, a dirk’s the most important weapon in a man’s arsenal.” He handed it to her with a leather thong. “Tie it to yer leg.”
“Thank you. I hope I never have to use it but I’ll be forever grateful to you for helping me.” She looked up and smiled. “Both for the dirk and taking me back to Calum.”
“Baa—’tis no trouble.” He looked at her and squinted his weathered eyes. “What do ye plan to do once ye reach Raasay?”
Anne took a deep breath. She had thought of little else during the ride north. “The first thing I must do is ask Calum’s forgiveness. I never meant to betray his clan, I only wanted to spare him further torture.”
“Any reasonable man will understand.”
“I hope so. I cannot live with myself, thinking he hates me.”
“’Twould be very difficult indeed to go through life and hate a lassie as fair as you. Look at all ye’re risking to go after him.” He pulled his saddle off his horse and set it down. Anne did the same. “What will ye do after ye see him?”
Of course she had considered Calum might not easily forgive her, but she’d do everything she could to make herself worthy of his love. But what if Calum banished her? “I cannot go back to England as long as Wharton is alive.”
“What about yer family?”
“Mother would insist I go back to the baron. My sister, Elizabeth is a countess—married to the Earl of Sussex.”
“Right near royalty, aye? That’s a possibility.”
Anne unrolled the tartan blanket Rorie had loaned her. “No. The earl is active in the House of Lords. I doubt he’d offer me sanctuary.”
Rorie patted her saddle. “Sit. If Calum MacLeod won’t pull his head out of his arse, I’ll take ye back to the Douglas and see what me lady wife can think to do with ye.”
Anne tried to smile. She could imagine no other life except one on Raasay. She closed her eyes and pictured Calum dancing with her from across the maypole. His dark gaze had focused only on her almost as if he were hungry, starving—but not for food—for her. When they danced together, his eyes had strayed to her breasts and remained there. And yet they had shared so much more than lust for flesh. An unwelcomed doubt splayed across the back of her neck. She couldn’t forget he had not fought for her when it came time to collect the ransom. But Rorie wouldn’t even accept a few shillings to escort her to Raasay.
Calum had never shown her a greedy side, but he could spurn her, cast her aside now he had the baron’s money. Something deep inside told her to stop. She would not be the one to let go without a fight.
I want a life where I can make a difference, like I had on Raasay. Wharton wanted me to be used like a stuffed deer head to mount in his wall. At Brochel Castle, no one cared what I looked like or how I dressed. The clan opened up to me because I worked beside them, taught the children, and helped them inventory their stolen goods…which they so desperately needed.
I love Calum with every fiber of my soul, and I will do everything to make him fall in love with me.