CHAPTER Twenty-eight
Wharton broke through the frigid water, wheezing and gasping. He’d never been this cold in his life. Even the chill of chasing Highlanders through the snow had not sucked the life out of him like this frigid sea.
He’d lost his weapons when he’d slammed into the water. Hitting with his back, the water slapped him like falling onto a sheet of ice. His skin stung. The current pulled him rolling over and over. In the dark, he lost his orientation, and it was only by the grace of God his head had surfaced.
He floated on his back and let the current pull him southwards away from the ships. From what he could see, the English ship was lost, going down in a heap of flames. Denton was his last hope.
Wharton shivered. He recalled the Scot’s face when he’d asked the heathen about Anne. The Highlander had looked too shocked for it to be a lie. The man knew nothing of Anne’s whereabouts.
Something hit Wharton’s head with a hollow wooden thud. Rubbing away the pain, he looked up. A boat. He reached up and pulled himself around to the side. Holding on, the skiff nearly capsized as he swung his leg up. Clutching the far side with all his strength, he rolled into the boat. Water sloshed in the bottom of the skiff and he lay there and stared at the black clouds.
If Anne was not with the Scot, where was she? Had she gone back to Southampton? Who had assisted her? Surely she could not have escaped without help. He coughed. Denton would find her if he had to force the man to spend the rest of his miserable life tracking the wench. Wharton would pay the henchman. And then Lady Anne would pay for the embarrassment she had caused him—with her lovely flesh.
***
Anne crouched in the boat, trembling as a cold wind swept across them. She shuddered. The burning English galleon sat low in the water, and the Sea Dragon listed to one side.
The rumble of war and fire was deadened by the scraping of the fourth ship’s hull against the English. Anne gasped. Was it the enemy? If an English ship, Calum would have no chance.
Dougal MacKenzie’s deep voice roared over the tumult. “’Tis Ruairi from Lewis. I’d recognize that pennant anywhere.”
Anne saw the blue and white lion fluttering in the firelight. Calum’s infamous brother had come. She scanned the confusion aboard the English galleon and thought she saw Calum running across the deck, claymore in hand. The skiff had traveled about half the distance to the ships and the fighting was more discernable now.
The clouds parted and streams of moonlight shone down, reflecting against the black water. Acrid smoke swirled above them, pushed by the breeze. An empty skiff bobbed in the distance—a peaceful remnant of the frantic scene on the sinking ship ahead.
Anne jolted in her seat when two men crashed through the window at the bow of the English galleon. She watched them plunge into the sea and Rorie’s hand grasped her shoulder. “We’re nearly across. The English ship will be lost soon and all will be adrift.”
Anne nodded and looked toward the shore. The keep loomed a dark silhouette against the night sky, until a bonfire ignited the outer bailey gate. Blazing arrows soared over the baily walls. With a wave of dread that made her teeth chatter, Anne pictured Mara and all the other women and children who were within. Soon smoke would engulf them.
“Row faster!” she shouted.
***
Calum slipped his dirk into his belt and kicked toward the shore. Sea salt burned the wounds in his side and leg, but he bore down and blocked it from his mind. The English soldiers were already upon the keep. The men he sent to guard it would need reinforcements soon. The roar of battle still raged on the English ship. He looked back over his shoulder. Ruairi’s ship was launching skiffs. Good. They had seen the fires ignite up at the castle.
Calum’s strength bled out of him, sapped by the frigid water. Raised island tough, he could withstand the cold longer than most, but he wasn’t impervious to it. His muscles weighed him down like lead as he leaned more weight onto the wooden board under his chest and used his arms and legs to push himself to shore.
The warmer water of the shallows welcomed him. Until his ears rang from a blast. Over his shoulder, a powder keg exploded on the English ship. She was going down fast in a shower of flames. A giant wave crashed over him, sending his body in a spiral to the depths. He hit the sandy bottom and used his legs to spring up. His head shot through the surface only to be pummeled by another angry swell, but he swam into it this time.
Men swam toward the shore, bellowing for help, reaching for anything that floated to help them battle the icy cold. The clash of swords on deck transitioned to a fight for survival. Garbled cries erupted from those who could not swim and shrieks of stabbing, icy pain echoed from those who could.
Calum scanned the chaos. A skiff laden with men rowed away from the wreckage. It sat low in the water with its human cargo. But the sailors in the water saw a chance for rescue and swam to it, clamping onto the boat’s edge. Calum swore he heard Dougal MacKenzie’s deep bass voice bellow across the sound. “Let go, ye bastards, ye’ll capsize us all!”
The freezing men paid him no mind and tried to pull their bodies over the side. The boat tipped and swung back. A high-pitched scream carried on the wind. More swimmers arrived, all trying to board. The boat flipped and a woman’s scream was muffled by a dousing of icy water.
Anne.
Shards of ice cut through his gut. I cannot swim. Anne’s words filled his head. Calum let the lifesaving piece of wood slip from under him as he swam back into a sea of utter confusion.
***
The whole sky exploded with the blast from the English galleon. Bodies sailed through the fire lit air with legs and arms flailing in futile attempts grasp at anything that would stop them from rocketing toward the sea. Blood curdling screams chilled Anne’s bones as helpless men thrashed, hitting the water with painful slaps and dunking splashes as if human cannonballs had been launched.
Anne clutched her fists under her chin. Had Calum been caught in the blast? Was he one of the men now fighting for his life? Or…or was he one of the dead? She closed her eyes. Dear God, please no.
Rorie and the men tried to steer the skiff away from the mass of splashing men. Many had started swimming to the shore, but others were flailing, drowning. Anne turned to Rorie. “We must help them.”
“The boat is already overfull. We cannot take even one more. Our best option to help them is to make the shore quickly and push the skiff back out.”
Anne didn’t like the answer, but could see no other choice. She gripped the edge of the skiff with determination. The fires on Brochel burned brighter. Rorie and his guard were needed there now.
The remains of the English galleon slipped into the sound with a loud groan followed by a deathly sucking rumble. A mob of swimmers advanced on the skiff. Their icy fingers grabbed for hers and Anne pulled her hands back with a shriek.
Dougal MacKenzie batted one man away with his oar. “Let go ye bastards, ye’ll capsize us all.”
But it was too late. Dozens of men reached for the edge of the skiff and tried to climb aboard. The boat teetered up and slapped down. Anne grabbed for Rorie’s arm and screamed. The capsized swimmers grew frantic and slapped at each other to gain a hold on the tiny boat. In a flash, Anne’s body hurled from the skiff. Shrieking, she curled into a ball and hit the water with a splash.
A million needles stabbed her flesh. Icy water enveloped her. She opened her mouth to cry out and salty water flooded in, burning her throat and lungs. Arms and legs lashing out, she fought for the surface. Her head shook as her body screamed with the need for air.
Blackness surrounded her. Anne strained to pull herself upward. She shot through the surface coughing up salt water. She gasped a breath of air just as her body again sank under the surface. She reached out, desperately trying to grab for anything to keep her afloat. She felt something—an arm—and grabbed it. With a jerk, the arm yanked away. A hand reached out and pushed her down.
Anne’s lungs shuddered with the need for air as she sank deeper into the icy sea. Her limbs dragged against her straining muscles. She needed to see Calum. She was so close, she couldn’t let the sea claim her now. With renewed effort she kicked her legs and stretched for the glowing surface above her.
Blackness clouded her vision. The more she fought, the deeper she sank into the cold depths. She reached her hands up. This could not be the end.
Something grabbed her from behind. Anne wanted fight, but her limbs had lost their strength. She could barely move. The world spun. Then her head broke the surface. She sucked in a lifesaving gasp of air.
“You’re going to be all right, lass.”
Calum! He wrapped his arm around her torso. She tried to speak but only coughed up salty water.
“We’re nearly there now.” His soothing voice calmed her as she heaved in and out sucking in sweet air.
As her coughing ebbed, she tried to talk through her quick breaths. “Ca-lum. You…you…are alive!”
“Aye, and so are you.”
“I-I…”
“Save yer breath. I’ve almost got ye to the shore.”
Calum cradled her in his arms as he staggered onto the beach. Anne had never been so happy to be on dry land. He carried her to the pile of driftwood where the Beltane festival had been and set her down. “Hide here. I must defend the keep.”
Anne’s teeth chattered. “I-I want to go with you.”
“Nay. No one will find ye here. We’ll make quick work of the English scoundrels and I’ll be back for ye.”
Calum squeezed her tight and kissed her fiercely. Turning away, he sped up the hill. Anne scanned the beach. Sodden men stumbled from the surf, sputtering and coughing. Some knelt upon the smooth stones, catching their breath—others lay face down, lifeless, pushed only by the surf.
***
Calum hated to leave Anne alone, but he could not turn his back on his people. Jaw set, he pulled the dirk from his belt and called to the men who littered the beach. “Use any weapon ye can find! To the keep, men.”
An English sailor looked up at him and rolled to his side. Calum planted his feet and pointed his dirk at the man’s throat. “Stay down and ye’ll be spared. The sailor exposed his bare palms in front of his face, signaling his surrender.
Calum hesitated and surveyed the beach. Ruairi had fought through the surf, claymore in hand. Leave it to his brother to hold onto his weapon. “Go—save yer keep. Me men will defend the beach.”
“Thank you.”
Pain thrumming across his skin, wet clothes clung to his skin as Calum raced for the path leading to Brochel. John fell in beside him. “I kent I should have stayed with the keep.”
“I dunna want one pillager left standing.”
“Aye, and as I said afore, if they touch our women, I’ll cut off their ballocks and stuff them down their throats while they’re still alive.”
Calum ran up the hill, ignoring his wounds and the sharp burn of his muscles. He could not tire. At the top, fire still smoldered at the wooden gates. The bodies of English soldiers skewered by arrows littered the ground. His gaze darted to the bailey walls. The women were gone—he knew they would have fled to the hidden chamber behind the solar.
He crept forward and nabbed a cutlass from a dead man. John did the same. With a running leap, Calum barreled over the flames and raced to the great hall. A dim fire from the hearth illuminated the brawl of shadowed figures fighting to the death.
John and Ian shot past him and charged up the stairwell. MacLeods followed Calum, armed with wood axes, fishing nets and sturdy driftwood. Some had been lucky enough to find discarded cutlasses and knives. They poured into the hall and Calum eyed his target. Black hair, gaunt face, with his teeth bared in a murderous scowl, Denton clashed with William MacLeod, pushing the Scotsman back, clearly toying with him.
Calum’s gut clamped into a rock hard ball. He could no longer feel the cold from his wet clothing nor feel the burns and stings of his wounds. With a fevered stare, he curled his lip over his teeth. Fire surged through his limbs. He roared and broke into a run.
Denton drew his sword back for the killing plunge. His blade sliced forward. Calum leapt the remaining distance and deflected the blow with the cutlass just as Denton’s sword tip skimmed William’s midsection.
Whipping his weapon back, Denton snapped his glare to Calum. “You? Wharton should have let me rip your limbs from your body on the rack.”
Calum circled, every nerve alive. He lifted his chin and inclined his head, inviting the murderer to make the first move.
Denton chuckled and slithered around him. “Well, well. I’ll take pleasure in finishing the job now.”
Calum wanted to bellow and charge in for a fast kill, but the calculating glint in Denton’s eye gave him pause. That was exactly what the executioner wanted him to do. He circled, waiting for the bastard to make the first move. Calum caught a flicker in Denton’s eye—a warning. He tensed, anticipating the blow. Denton lunged, going for his gut. Calum darted to the side and defended the strike with a resounding clang.
Denton wielded his weapon with expert cunning and finesse. Calum adjusted to the lighter cutlass in his hand. Though easier to wield, it forced him closer to his opponent. Calum liked it. He needed to fight close to ensure a lethal cut. With each swing of the cutlass, he followed with a swipe of his sword.
Denton fought like a scoundrel, darting in for quick slashes with his blade and spinning away before Calum could sink his weapon into his heart.
Again, Denton lunged. Calum deflected and swung up his cutlass. Denton spun. The blade caught the henchman’s side and blood spewed across the floor. Heaving, Denton circled, holding his sword out, narrowing his gaze. With a sudden charge, he roared, “Die, you Highland bastard!”
***
Violently shaking in her wet clothes, Anne peered over the driftwood log. Norman and Ruairi’s men stood at the surf, cutting down English sailors as they dragged themselves from the frigid water.
A large man pulled himself ashore and leaned forward, his hands on his knees, heaving and straining for air. Ruairi ran toward him, sword held high.
“No!” Anne leapt from behind her hideout and raced toward Calum’s brother.
Straightening, Rorie drew his claymore and bellowed. “I’m a bloody Douglas, ye crazy Scot.”
Ruairi skidded and jerked his sword back. “Well, why didna ye say so in the first place?”
“’Tis good to see ye too, MacLeod.” Rorie chuckled.
Anne raced in and pointed toward the castle. “Rorie! Calum’s defending the keep. We must fight.”
Her gaze snapped to Ruairi. He nodded at the Douglas chief. “Ye go. I’ll hold the beach.”
Rorie grinned. One-by-one his guardsmen emerged from the surf. He pointed his claymore to the castle. “There are English to fight, lads. Arm yerselves.”
“This way,” Anne yelled over the pounding surf.
Anne charged up the hill, running faster than she ever had in her life. She gasped when they found the burnt-out shell of the gate, but charged forward. English soldiers lay scattered in the courtyard, skewered by arrows.
Rorie and his men pushed ahead of her and filed into the great hall. Anne took in a deep breath at the sound of sword fighting within. She stepped up to the threshold and craned her neck. Calum swung his sword with force, embroiled in a fierce fight with that black-haired monster, Denton. Both men were bleeding. Calum’s pale face was drawn, his eyes dark, and chords jutted from his neck with each swing of his blade.
Denton’s black hair flicked with every sharp move. He looked like a viper darting in for his attacks and slipping away from Calum’s strikes. That man had to be the blackguard who stretched Calum on the rack. Anne’s insides twisted with each blow, her gaze darting across the scene seeking an opportunity to help.
Hugging the wall, Anne scooted toward the two men. She had no idea what she would do, but she needed to be close to Calum. She reached for her dirk, but before her fingers brushed the basket weave hilt, an arm slipped around her waist and yanked her back toward the massive double doors.
Anne screamed.
“Shut up, whore.”
She froze.
Wharton jerked her against his chest and hauled her into the darkness.
***
Distracted by Anne’s shrill scream, Calum looked away for a split second. Denton’s blade slashed open his shirt with a stinging cut. A wee bit closer and Calum would have been dead. Infused with rage, he eyed his target. Denton circled, barking out a callous laugh. The bastard thought he’d made a mortal wound.
Calum knew better and turned in place, waiting for Denton to make his move. Denton raised his sword. Seeing his chance, Calum spun into him, swinging the cutlass. With an earthshaking roar, he sliced through Denton’s neck. The henchman’s head bowled across the floor. Denton’s body stood stiff for a moment and then his knees buckled and he crashed to the ground.
Calum raced out the door and through the outer bailey gates. He’d glimpsed Wharton. The bastard must already have Anne halfway to the beach. Ruairi and his men still fought in the surf. To the south, a lone skiff waited tucked against the cliff, away from the fighting.
Calum tore after them, heedless of his injuries. He leapt across the brush to cut off the corners of the zigzagging path. Anne’s cries vibrated in his ears. There! Wharton struggled to control her as she twisted and fought to get away.
With one more leg to go to the beach, Calum’s mind clicked and he jumped over the rocky crag and skidded feet away from the boat. “Stop!”
Wharton tossed Anne into the skiff and whipped around. Snatching a dagger from his belt, he held it steady. “Stay back.” He kept his eyes on Calum as he shoved the skiff into the water.
Calum charged in with the cutlass held high. Wharton dove aside and caught Calum by the waist. Falling, the two men crashed to the stones. Calum’s hand smashed against a rock and his sword flew from his grip. Wharton’s weight crushed his chest. Calum swung his fist into the baron’s temple. The big man reached up with his knife. Calum caught his arm, the blade inches from his face. Locked in a battle of raw strength, Calum stared at the knife. His hands trembled with the pressure, his face stretched as he fought with everything he had left.
Wharton crushed his barrel chest over him. Calum could hardly breathe. He tried to shove the baron away with his trapped shoulder and shook with the strain, muscle against muscle.
Suddenly, Wharton arched up and bellowed like a skewered bull. His eyes bulged and blood oozed from his mouth. The knife slid from his hand. His body dropped forward and pinned Calum with dead weight.
With a disgusted grunt, Calum threw Wharton off and scrambled out from under the beast. Anne stood behind him, her hands bloodied and shaking. Her stunned eyes drifted to the dirk in Wharton’s back.
God bless her, she’d killed him.
Calum opened his arms and Anne fell into them. Her body trembled with panicked gasps. But she was warm and alive. His chest fluttered with relief, He brushed his lips over her forehead and clutched her to his chest.
“’Tis over lass.”
“I-I killed him.”
Calum knew the mortification she’d feel at having taken a human life. Anne would be numb and she would never forget it, but in time she would reconcile herself to the fact she’d done it to save him.
“Ye saved me life.”
She lifted her chin. “You saved my life as well.”
Cradling her in his arms, he bowed his head and covered her mouth with deep, searing, wonderfully satisfying kiss.