CHAPTER Four
Lord Wharton washed his breakfast down with a draught of cider, feeling giddy for the first time in…well the first time ever. Any day now, the ship should arrive with Lady Anne, his new bride. He rubbed his fingers in a circular pattern across his palm, imagining her young flesh. He had worked hard all his life. He deserved this. Yes, he’d put on a stone or two and his body didn’t respond as quickly. But Lady Anne would grow to accept him. After all, she had been cloistered in her father’s estate. Her uncle had assured him that she knew nothing of men. A welcomed thickness spread across his groin. Having raised a family himself, he was the perfect man to show the sweet virgin a wife’s place.
Of course, he would have preferred to take Lady Anne to his estate in Healaugh, but momentarily he was engaged with the Earl of Northumberland as warden of the region. The earl had given him use of the manor on the castle grounds as part of his service. It had been the earl’s idea to marry by proxy and have Anne sail to the River Aln. When she arrived, the Lord Percy would host a feast to honor the Baron of Wharton and his new baroness.
Though the manor was nowhere near as grand as Alnwick Castle, it was solidly built—a fortress in itself, a home in which any baroness would be proud, even the second daughter of an earl.
His manservant, Samuel, leaned down to pick up his tray. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“Leave the ewer.” Thomas looked at him with a twist to his gut. “Any word of the Flying Swan?”
“Not yet, my lord. I could send a messenger.”
“No. The lookout will come when she’s spotted.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Thomas waved the man away with a flick of his wrist and belched. Since he had returned from London five months ago, he’d been absorbed with negotiating the terms of his marriage. He would never forget watching Lady Anne from across the aisle at Westminster Abbey. She stirred a longing deep within, a feeling he’d not experienced since his years as a young man when he courted his first wife, Eleanor. God rest her soul.
Wharton had patiently waited until the crowd dispersed and then introduced himself. Lady Anne had looked past him when he kissed her hand. He expected that. After all, he was nearly three times her age. Young women always think they want to fall in love with a younger, less experienced man. What they need is a learned man, aged by war and time, to guide them through the complexities of life.
He poured one more goblet of cider and gazed out the window. Dora skipped into view carrying a bucket of chicken feed. His tongue shot to the corner of his mouth when the wind picked up the servant’s golden hair from under her white coif. It was the color of Lady Anne’s. Wharton rubbed his hand across his crotch. Dora smelled a bit too strongly of tallow, even when naked, and though she meandered beyond the glass, he could smell it. Perhaps her scent lingered from last night’s interlude.
A rap on his door brought him back to the moment. “Come.”
Samuel stepped inside and presented a missive on a silver platter. “From Captain Fortescue, my lord.”
“Fortescue? It must have been dispatched before the ship sailed. Odd.” He slipped his thumb under the wax seal and read. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow, but the thickness stuck there along with the cider, turning to fire his belly.
He slammed the missive on the table and glared at the weathered face of his servant. “Where is the messenger who brought this?”
“I sent him to the kitchen, my lord.”
“Bring him to me at once, and fetch Master Denton.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The table upended when Wharton pushed away. He growled and kicked the heavy thing aside with his heel. Grinding his back molars against the pain, he paced. His mind raced through the half-dozen people who knew of his marriage. He’d kept it quiet. Had a missive been intercepted? Where was Lady Anne? He’d fled Wharton Hall because of enemies hell bent on destroying him. Now they had pillaged the ship and the only soul not accounted for was his wife?
A young man appeared in the doorway, holding his cap. “You wanted to see me, my lord?”
Thomas whipped around. “You delivered the missive?”
“Yes.”
“How was it handed to you?”
“I am Captain Fortescue’s First Mate. I watched him pen the letter and seal it.”
“Did anyone else read it?”
“No, my lord. Fortescue directed me to deliver it with haste.”
“You were on the ship when it was attacked?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We sailed into a squall. The night was black and the carrack dark. We didn’t see her until she was crossing our bow flying the Jolly Roger.”
“Pirates,” Thomas said, thinking aloud. “Spaniards? Dutch?”
“Scots.”
The baron’s full belly churned, threatening to heave. With a rolling belch, he swallowed. The Scots—his fiercest enemies. “I knew it. Those murdering bastards will never rest. England will not be at peace until every last one of them is dead and their seed is snuffed out forever.”
The boy nodded, his mouth drawn in a frown. Wharton wanted to slam his fist into his young face. “How could you lose my wife? Where is she, damn you?”
He stammered. “My lord?”
“What has Fortescue done to…” He clenched his fists and shook them. “Get. Her. Back?”
“He’s gone to London, sir—reported it to the Royal Navy. Th-the queen is very upset indeed.”
Wharton paced the parlor. Imbeciles. On his third trip past the incompetent first mate, he shoved his finger in the man’s sternum and shouted, “I trusted you and your crew to bring her to me safely. Now all are accounted for except my baroness?”
The young man backed a step. “Yes, my lord.”
Wharton glared at him—the young face of ineptitude. “Get out,” he roared. “Be gone, or you’ll feel the cold steel of my sword.” Wharton grasped the hilt and yanked the cutlass from his scabbard while the man fled.
I should have been there. If I had traveled to Southampton to fetch her, none of this would have happened. I should have never relied on someone else. Scottish barbarians? Only I know how to quash the miserable Scots—Fortescue would have been beat before the battle began.
The lean figure of Master Denton appeared in the passageway. His eyes drifted down to the sword in Wharton’s hand, and he brushed his fingers across his own hilt. “You sent for me, my lord?”
Wharton eyed his henchman and shoved the sword back in its scabbard. Though Master Denton had always been a most loyal and trusted servant, his appearance gave Thomas pause. With hair black as coal framing his gaunt face, Denton looked like an executioner. Wharton half expected him to carry a headsman’s axe. Tall, lanky, the man’s black eyes appeared to have no capacity for sympathy, and that’s how Thomas wanted it. Never had he seen Master Denton look at a woman, or a woman look his way for that matter.
“Scottish pirates plundered Lady Anne’s ship. It appears they have taken her prisoner.” He looked away and lowered his voice. “Or worse.”
“The Scots again?” If Denton had felt any remorse for the baroness he didn’t show it.
“I want you to go to Portsmouth. Find out everything you can. Were there Scots hanging about the pubs before the Flying Swan sailed? What colors did they wear?”
Denton nodded.
Thomas lunged in and jutted his face under Denton’s nose. “I want that pirate captain’s head.”
“Understood.”
“And you can give Fortescue a taste of my dissatisfaction while you’re at it.”
The corner of Denton’s mouth twitched. “I’ll see it done.”
“Good. Leave now. I want word dispatched within the fortnight.”
Wharton stepped to the window and watched Denton trot through the gates on his black steed. If anyone could drudge up information from the back alleyways of a dockyard, it was he.
Sickly dread stabbed Thomas in the gut. He envisioned a pirate with his kilt hiked up around his hips forcing his maiden bride. It blinded him with rage. He wanted to know who this pirate was, damn it. His fists clenched. When I uncover his identity, he will rue the day he was born. And if he defiles my wife, I’ll make the rutting bastard gag on her blood before I carve out his bowels and hang him.
***
Anne clutched the bedclothes under her chin. The air had turned markedly colder on their voyage north. She’d heard about the bone-chilling wind from the North Sea. Now March thirtieth, she expected a bit more warmth, but the gooseflesh on her skin hinted that it might even snow. She shivered.
She wished she could pull up her feather duvet and go back to sleep, but that luxury remained behind, still covering her bed at Titchfield House. From the hurried footsteps clamoring above, she could tell that the morning’s work had begun. The anxious voices told her this wasn’t just any morning and curiosity took hold. She threw back the bedclothes and wrapped her woolen dressing gown around her shift.
Footsteps clomped down the corridor followed by a tap on her door. “Time to break yer fast, milady.”
“Come in.”
The tray jostled in Bran’s hands, reflecting his excitement. “We’re rounding Trotternish on the Isle of Skye. We’ll see Rona and then Raasay within the hour.”
Anne settled her hand on the boy’s brown curls. He reminded her of her brother, Henry, but there was a world of difference between the two. Henry had succeeded her father as Earl of Southampton, and Bran stood on gawky legs in a moth-eaten kilt, his face caked with dirt and sea salt. He looked happy as a puppy, but he wasn’t wearing his sling. “How is your arm?”
He stretched out his hand and jiggled his fingers. “All healed, milady. Yer ointment fixed me up like new.”
“I still want you to be careful for at least another week.” Anne pushed up his sleeve and examined his arm for bruising. The swelling had gone down and the purple was fading into an ugly yellow—an unattractive, but sure sign of recovery. “Are you excited to return home?”
“Aye, milady. It’s been a harsh winter and the clan’s starving.” He straightened the plaid across his shoulder and looked up with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I cannot wait to see the look on me ma’s face when she sees the Flying Swan and her cargo.”
Anne wanted to share in Bran’s excitement, but these were stolen goods. Arriving in Raasay filled her with the same trepidation as the thought of arriving at Alnwick. What would Calum do with her once they arrived? Would she be safe? Would they take her trunks and divvy out her clothing amongst the heathens?
After she’d eaten and dressed in her most modest gown—a woolen frock that showed as little cleavage as possible, she pulled a cloak around her shoulders and ventured out to the main deck. The brisk wind cut through her multiple layers of clothing, took hold of her silk veil and snatched the coronet off her head. With a squeal, she chased after it. The headpiece was amongst her favorite and seemed to grow a mind of its own, spiraling across the deck like a blue rogue sail.
A large hand reached out and stopped the coronet before it flew over the rail and into the sea. Anne’s eyes trailed up the arm to a pair of broad shoulders. Calum wore his dark auburn hair loose. It shimmered with copper as the wind tossed stray strands across his face. White teeth flashing with his grin, he pushed his hair aside.
The wind swirled in puffs across Anne’s skin, leaving a tingle behind. She reached for the rail to steady herself. Calum had shaved his beard. If anything, his smooth, square jaw brought more prominence to his raw masculinity. She wished she could reach out and brush her fingers across his unblemished skin.
Why did he have to be so rakishly good looking? Curses, every time she looked at him, he seemed more handsome than the last. Her heart fluttered. She clasped her hand over it to quash her reaction.
He clutched her coronet with both hands. Anne took a step toward him and blinked rapidly, the heat of her cheeks being the only warmth she’d felt that morning. She broke the tension by glancing down at her wayward headdress and held out her hand.
He casually handed it to her. “’Tis a bit too dainty for a ship’s deck. Ye need a woolen bonnet in these waters.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate a detour to the Hebrides when I packed.”
He leaned against the rail with a hand on his hip. “We mean ye no harm.”
“No?” Anne rubbed her upper arms. “And just how long will I suffer your hospitality?”
“No longer than necessary—a month, mayhap two.”
“I did not ask for this,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Nor did I, but you’re here just like that cold wind that’s cutting through yer dress.” His eyes trailed down the length of it and back up again. “We have naught but to make the most of things.”
A fireball ignited in the pit of Anne’s stomach, flaring and melting away the cold. He looked at her with eyes an intensity that took her breath away. No man had ever made her insides sizzle and ache—as if he were the devil himself. Calum was a rake, a thief, and there was every possibility he would hang for his crimes. She would die if he ever discovered the effect he had on her sensibilities. She must cling to her resolve.
She twisted the headpiece in her hands. “How long do you think you can carry on, plundering Her Majesty’s ships before you meet your end?”
His face turned dark and he stepped toward her. “Ye do have a quick tongue for a noble lassie.” Anne inhaled—sea salt, musk and danger. He leaned in, his lips an inch from her ear. “I like that.”
With a gasp, Anne faced him. From the flash of the gold flecks in his eyes, she knew she’d hit a nerve with her terse remark, but she wouldn’t allow him to think he’d charmed her with his devilish smile and powerful shoulders.
“Rounding Raasay, Captain,” John called from the deck above.
Calum rolled his arm in an exaggerated bow. “Lady Anne.” He marched up to the quarterdeck leaving her alone at the rail.
Bran skittered past. “Come, milady. Ye’ll have a better view from the forecastle.”
Bran tugged on her hand and led her forward up the steps to the bow of the ship. He ran to the forward rail and beckoned her with a wave of his arm. “There she is—Raasay.”
The island loomed like a dark shadow wedged between the shores of the Scottish mainland and the Isle of Skye. Spindly birch trees jutted up between the rocks, bent as if old before their time. As the ship sailed south, the terrain became lusher with bracken ferns shaded by healthier trees than she’d seen to the north. Ahead, verdant pastureland touched the shore of a beach covered with layers of smooth stone.
Bran pointed. “There it is—Brochel Castle.”
Sitting atop a stony crag, the fortress walls extended skyward. Outer baily walls surrounded a single square donjon tower that peaked above a ring of mist, as if separated from the earth. Anne spotted guards between the crenel notches. A bell sounded, and the beach erupted with activity as people ran to the shore. Waving their arms, their indiscernible shouts carried away by the wind.
“See the tower?” Bran yanked on her hand. “’Twas a broken shell when Calum came. We carted the stone from the north of the island and built it sturdy.”
Anne admired the pride written across the boy’s face. “It sounds like hard work.”
“Aye, and it took an eternity, but we’ve a fine keep now.”
“Where did you live before the repairs?”
“There are long houses at the back of the battlements. Some clan families still use them.”
Anne stole a look across to the quarterdeck. Calum stood at the helm, taking charge of the ship’s anchoring. The men jumped to his every command without question. His hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene as if he were born to captain a ship. His gaze snapped up, meeting Anne’s. She quickly averted her attention back to Bran, giving a nervous laugh and hoping Calum didn’t think she’d been watching him all that time.
Bran peeled away from the rail and danced around the deck. “We’ll have a grand gathering tonight!”
The boy’s antics made her laugh. Anne wished she could celebrate, but a cold shiver shot up her spine instead. The dark grey walls of the castle were archaic, far less refined than Titchfield House. She fixed her gaze on the tower. Would Calum lock her in a room at the top until her ransom was arranged? Her head swooned. The tower was the highest point in sight. It precariously ruled over the pasture and beach as if it teetered on the brink of collapse.
Anne crossed her arms and grasped her shoulders. She’d reached the next stage of her misadventure. Her gaze fell to the dark swells of water below. There was no need to dip her fingers in the sea to determine it was cold. The chill wafted up on the salty air.
Watching the men lower a skiff, she let out a breath. She looked behind her at the mainland across the sound. Would she find a chance to steal away?