CHAPTER Five
Anne hurried back to her stateroom. Locking the door behind her, she pulled her treasure box out from under the mattress. Calum’s men would offload her trunks. God only knew what they would steal. She quickly removed her shillings and jewels and jammed them in her pockets.
She jumped at a knock on her door.
“Are ye ready to disembark, milady?”
“A moment.” She closed the lid and fastened the buckles.
When she opened the door, she couldn’t breathe. Clad in a kilt of fine wool with his red plaid draped across his shoulder and a massive claymore swinging from his belt, Calum looked the ideal laird. How could any woman not be enchanted by his blue eyes, glittering from a face so wickedly handsome? One eyebrow arched with the up-ticked corner of his mouth. The laird had thought to escort her ashore himself? Possibly his manners were genuine.
“My lord, I thought you’d send Bran or John to collect me.”
“And trust my most precious cargo to another?”
Anne laughed at the devious smile dancing across his face. “Your charm is futile with me, laird Calum.” So she wished him to think.
He held up her father’s dagger. “I believe this is yers.”
She plucked it from his fingers, a confusing concoction of resentment, surprise and appreciation caught her off guard. “You trust me then?”
“I think we can agree to a truce.” His muscles rippled as he stepped forward and offered his arm. “Are ye ready, milady?”
She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He looked past her and assessed her trunks. “The men will see to it your things are delivered to your chamber.”
“My chamber? And where might that be?”
“I planned to have Mara prepare the guest room for you.”
“Guest room?” She touched her hand to her chest. “I thought you might lock me in the tower.”
“I would have you comfortable during yer stay.” He ran a finger across the gold brooch that clasped his plaid. “Unless ye would prefer to be treated as a prisoner.”
“Are your guest quarters in the tower?”
“Two floors above the great hall. The clan guard occupies the floors above that.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
When they walked onto the deck, Anne thought she would die when Bran held out a rope harness fashioned with a board barely wide enough for her to sit upon. Swallowing hard, she climbed into the contraption. Dangling from the web of rigging above, they lowered her to the skiff. Anne shut her eyes and swallowed her urge to scream. Didn’t they know she couldn’t swim? Where was the pier?
Anne was sure the small boat would capsize as John Urquhart, Bran and Calum followed her, making use of the same harness as if they were swinging from a grand oak tree with lush grass beneath. When Calum took the seat beside her, Anne fastened both hands around his arm. When faced with an icy death in the Sound of Raasay, or clinging to a pirate, she threw her misgivings aside and opted for life.
His muscle flexed beneath her grasp. Surely he was hewn from iron. “Yer no’ a seafaring lass are ye?”
“I cannot swim, and even if I could, these skirts would drown me. Why have you no pier?”
“I’ll have to add that to the agenda for discussion at the next clan meeting. It can follow healing the sick and feeding the children.”
Anne detected a note of sarcasm in his voice, but nothing could have prepared her for the scene on the beach. Yes, she had seen poor people on the streets of Portsmouth and Southampton. She had even opened her kitchens to the local crofters at Titchfield House. None of her tenants starved. She had seen to it.
Though there was laughing and dancing, the children were dirty and gaunt as if they hadn’t a decent meal all winter. Their clothing was tattered—hardly warm enough for the cold north. Anne wondered how they could be so happy. They seemed to be teetering on the brink of death.
As they marched up the beach, an old man with a woolen blanket pulled about his shoulders coughed. Anne leaned in to study the pink rims around his eyes. He smiled, revealing a single tooth in the front of his mouth, and said something in Gaelic—spoken so fast, Anne couldn’t make it out. Pleased with himself, he threw back his head and laughed, bringing on a fit of raucous coughing.
“What did he say?” Anne asked.
She could have sworn Calum turned red right up to the tip of his ears. “He’s just a silly old man.”
Anne noticed the others lining the shore were laughing too. “Well, whatever it was, they certainly thought it terribly funny.”
Bran leaned toward her. “He asked Calum if he captured himself a wife.”
Anne covered her mouth to hide her astonishment and hurried ahead. These people couldn’t possibly think the captain had a romantic interest in her. Heaven’s stars, she was a married woman. At a split in the path, she took the right.
Calum cleared his throat behind her. “This way, milady.”
Anne glanced over her shoulder to see who had noticed. Everyone. With quick step, she fell in line behind Calum, climbing a zigzag path up to the castle. The monstrous gates to the outer bailey were opened wide, welcoming them. Inside the castle grounds, people lined the path to the tower, shouting friendly cheers, reaching their hands out to touch Calum. Fingers strayed to Anne and brushed her velvet cloak. She gasped when tiny palms found their way to her waist. A toothy smile of a small girl gazed up, her eyes wide with wonder.
Without a second thought, Anne picked her up. “What is your name?”
“Isabelle.” She stuck a finger in her mouth. “Are ye a princess?”
Anne whistled. “No. I’m merely a lady lost at sea.”
Anne kissed Isabelle on the cheek and returned her to the outstretched arms of a woman who must have been her mother.
Calum pushed through heavy oak doors into the great hall. A young woman with her hair tucked under a linen coif scurried into Calum’s outstretched arms “Fàilte mo laird—greetings my laird.”
Anne understood that.
“Ye must use your English, Mara.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “This is our guest, Lady Anne from, ah, Southampton. Take her to the guest room.”
Mara pushed a stray lock of auburn hair under her white linen coif. “The guest room?”
He winked. “Aye—ye ken—where the Chief of Lewis stays when he pays a visit.”
Understanding lit up her face. “Of course.” Mara looped her arm through Anne’s—an inordinately familiar gesture for a serving maid. “Come with me, milady. We’ll make ye right comfortable.”
Anne let Mara pull her up the winding stone staircase. A few inches shorter than Anne, Mara’s acorn eyes filled with excitement. “Ye must tell me what happened, milady. The whole castle was agog with news of your arrival afore ye made it up the hill.”
“I’m afraid I was a bit of unexpected cargo on the Flying Swan.”
“Oh me heavens.”
“Well, at least the captain didn’t see fit to toss me overboard.”
“Calum? He would never do that.” Mara brushed the idea away with a flick of her hand. “And how long do ye think ye might be staying?”
“Until the ransom can be arranged with my husband.”
“So you’re married, then?”
“Yes. Somewhat.”
“How can anyone be ‘somewhat’ married?”
“I suppose I’m legally married—on paper, anyway.” Anne bit her bottom lip.
Mara stopped and gaped. “That makes no sense at all.”
Anne shouldn’t have spoken so freely with the maid. They’d barely met. But she asked so many questions, and her face looked as friendly as a kitten’s, reminding her of Hanna.
Mara opened a door into a spacious chamber with a huge, but tattered mahogany bed with torn red canopy drapes. She gestured to a large stone hearth. “I stoked the fire when word came the ship rounded Skye.”
“You did? I thought this was the guest room.”
Wide eyed, Mara covered her mouth with both hands. “Apologies. I’m very bad with secrets.”
“This is his chamber, is it not?”
She cast her eyes downward. “Aye, milady.”
“Where does Calum sleep when the Chief of Lewis visits?”
“He takes one of the smaller chambers above. ’Tis no trouble—Please don’t tell him I told ye, he’d be awful sore with me.”
“And where is the laird’s wife? Am I also imposing on her hospitality?”
“Calum has no wife.”
Anne turned to examine a tapestry, afraid Mara might be able to sense her thundering heartbeat. Studying the exquisite needlework of the family crest with a sun encircled by a leather belt, Anne could not fathom why her insides flipped upside down at the news. But the fact Calum was unwed was most interesting indeed. She ran her finger around the circle which bore the Latin words, Luceo Non Uro. “I shine not burn.”
“Pardon?” Mara asked, turning down the bedclothes.
Composure regained, Anne stepped to the other side of the bed to help—something she did with Hanna, though her mother never knew. “Is the laird promised?” She feigned her most blasé expression and fluffed the pillows while watching Mara out of the corner of her eye.
“Nay. He’s been too busy trying to keep us fed. The cargo of the Flying Swan will be put to good use indeed.” She giggled. “When we saw ye clutching his arm in the skiff, we all thought ye were the one.”
The one? Heaven preserve me.
Mara walked to the door. “Is there anything else ye’ll be needing milady?”
“Just my things. I suspect the men will bring them in due course.”
“Very well. The dinner bell rings at dusk.”
***
Calum couldn’t draw his eyes away from the graceful sway of Anne’s bottom as she ascended the stairs with Mara. When she’d clutched his arm in the skiff, he sensed a slight crack in her stately fa?ade. He hadn’t expected his body’s response when she placed her hands upon him. He was certain she could hear his heart thundering against his ribcage. Blast it all, Calum should have asked her to sit beside Bran or anyone else.
He turned to his fair-haired younger brother, Norman, who held the keep during Calum’s absences. A few inches shorter, Norman closed his gaping mouth, shook his head and looked toward the ceiling. “Ye only have to look at her to ken she’s nobility. Ye want the entire English navy to come blow us to hell?”
Calum hated the way his younger brother jumped to conclusions. “’Tis good to see ye too, Norman.” He led him and John aside. “We had no choice in the matter. The skiffs were launched before we found her.”
“What do ye aim to do with the lass?”
“Ransom her to her husband.”
“What? Is he the Duke of Norfolk or something?”
“Thomas Wharton—the Baron of Wharton after his attack on Scotland at Solway Moss.”
Norman blanched. “Christ, Calum. Wharton? Do ye ken what he’ll do if he discovers it’s us who’ve absconded with his wife?”
“Aye—no more than if the English learn it’s us who’ve plundered their ship.” Calum’s fists moved to his hips. “How much do ye think we should ask for her?”
John leaned in and kept his voice low. “Too much and he’ll hunt us down for sure. Too little and he’ll no’ take us seriously.”
“A thousand pounds.” Calum looked between the two men. Both frowned but neither objected. “A thousand pounds it is. I’ll write the note. John ye’ll leave on the morrow. In Urquhart plaid, no one south of Inverness will tie ye with the MacLeods.”
John nodded. A pang of guilt crept up Calum’s nape. He knew John wanted to tarry longer with his new wife, but love would have to wait. Cousin and loyal friend, John would swim the frigid Sound of Raasay and back if Calum asked. As an Urquhart, he was the best man for the job—and they all just might return Lady Anne to her life without getting their necks stretched on English gallows.
Friar Patrick MacSween pushed his way into the hall, the hemp rope wrapped around his portly waist swinging against his brown robe. “Praise the good Lord ye’ve returned in one piece.”
Calum smiled at the healer not only of souls, but the friar had a good knowledge of herbs as well. “I couldn’t very well leave ye alone to twist the minds of me kinsfolk.”
“Ye heathen lad.” The big man pulled Calum into a welcoming bear hug. “And how are things with the English?”
“They’re down one ship and its cargo.” Calum nodded toward John and Norman. “We’ll have to start refitting the Flying Swan as soon as she’s offloaded—cannot take a chance on having it spotted by English spies.”
“Are there any new medicines in the hold?”
“If there are, I’ll wager ye’ll sniff them out.”
The friar was always anxious to find any new remedies from the south. With ships traveling to and from the West Indies, new herbs and medicines were coming to England all the time. It could take years before they made it to Scotland and even longer to reach the Hebrides. The Flying Swan was a Godsend for the entire clan.
Calum took John up to the solitude of the solar and penned a missive. Since discovering Lady Anne’s identity, he’d carefully considered how he would make the transfer. There was no way he could invite Lord Wharton into Scotland, and yet traveling to England was fraught with danger. In the end, Calum chose Carlisle. A small border town, he could slip into the area rather easily. The problem would be getting out.
Wharton was a snake. Calum had no doubt the baron would be well armed. Calum would need to receive the ransom first and then deliver Lady Anne. His mood darkened as if the grim reaper had walked across his soul. He dreaded the thought of releasing Anne into the hands of Lord Wharton. If she could have married any other Englishman, it would have been preferable. And if the marriage decree had not been executed, he would consider laying claim to her himself. But Calum would never take another man’s bride, even a man as vile as the baron.
He folded the missive and dribbled a blob of red wax and sealed it with a blank. “Take this to Edinburgh. Have a runner pay an Englishman to deliver it to Wharton.”
“Have ye decided how ye’ll do it?” John asked.
“Aye.” Calum handed him the note. “But I’ll keep it to meself until your return.”
John clamped his mouth shut and gave a quick nod. Calum hated to be tight-lipped, but the less his quartermaster knew when he traveled to Edinburgh, the better. Calum placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “I can trust only you with this. Ye are closer to me than my own brother.”
“I’ll leave at dawn.”
“Good. Now go find that bonny wife of yers.”
“I’m afraid Mara has her hands full with the cargo.”
“Tell her I said she can tend to it on the morrow. I’ll see the cooks have supper ready and our guest is settled.”
John shook his head. “Ye ken, Mara’s a headstrong lass. I’ll be dragging her away by her hair.”
“Then get to it.” Calum burst out with a rolling laugh. “If that’s what it takes to plant a bairn in her belly.”
Calum left John to his business and headed to the castle stairs. He hesitated on the landing. One floor up was his chamber, presently occupied by Lady Anne. He wished he had time to march up and tell her what a fool she’d been for marrying that codfish. Calum would take her in his arms and ravish those sweet red lips with passionate kisses—crush her voluptuous breasts against his chest. Christ, the lass had probably never been kissed by a man who could show her the heat of passion a man and a woman could share merely by the joining of lips.
He placed his foot on the first step and held it there. With a groan, he resisted the urge to follow after her. Best let her settle first. Besides, she’d sooner see me swinging from the gallows.
Trotting down the stairs, he refused to allow thoughts of Lady Anne or her ransom to further cloud his mood. He had a ship’s cargo to unload, and a celebration to begin. Calum marched down to the shore. Everyone was working, carrying something, even the smallest children.
“’Tis a miracle, Calum,” said Sarah, Robert’s wife.
Calum had thought her pretty before this voyage. Now she seemed plain, though he cared for her no less. Sarah carried her bundle with a light step, her three bairns waddling in line behind her like a family of ducks.
He hefted the youngest onto his hip. “We’ll have a feast tonight to celebrate our bounty.”
The tot clapped her hands against his cheeks. “Och aye!”
With a squeeze, he set her down and surveyed the beach. These people were his sole concern. He could never cast aside the honor or the responsibility.
He glanced up to the window of his chamber. Was Anne was watching? That she might filled him with vim. He wanted her to witness the teamwork of his clan—to see the harmony that existed between his people and the unity with which they bonded under his leadership.
***
A breeze tickled Anne’s face when she pushed aside the heavy furs that shrouded the narrow window.
Calum strode onto the beach and she leaned forward to watch him. No others came close to matching his broad shoulders and imposing height. He walked with powerful confidence, and all heads turned to him while he made his way to the shore. Though the whistle of the wind and roar of the sea filled her ears, she could hear him in her mind, managing the cargo disposition, pointing in every direction, helping with heavy loads, patting his clansmen and women on their backs.
Bran ran up to him with his arms flailing, clearly ranting about a monumental problem. With a wide stance, Calum put his hands on his hips and listened, then grabbed Bran round the shoulders and ground his knuckles into his mop of brown curls.
Anne laughed out loud then looked over her shoulder to ensure no one had heard. Of course she was still alone. The entire clan was on the beach hauling grain, or shepherding sheep and cattle off to the paddocks. She caught sight of one of her trunks being lowered to a skiff and wrung her hands. Calum bounded into the surf with foaming splashes spraying around him.
How could he rush into that frigid water as if it were summer?
Once her trunks lined the shore, he organized a crew to haul them up the winding path to the keep. A sharp wind slipped through her gown and she rubbed her hands over her arms. Calum was down there in a soaking kilt, hauling her things about as if he were a servant. The chill must cut to his bone.
Calum’s wet shirt clung to his chest. Even from the window, Anne could see his muscles straining against the sheer fabric. The last trunk was the heaviest and his arm muscles bulged under the strain. Her eyes trailed downward, but her blasted trunk blocked her from seeing more. She folded her arms and stepped away. It was just as well. How on earth could she allow herself to ogle the enemy?
By the time a knock sounded upon her door, Anne had pushed away the images of Calum in his wet shirt—until she opened it.
Calum may as well have been naked from the waist up. He seemed not to notice his shirt clung to his chest and arms like a second skin. Anne let her eyes drift down to his abdomen, which heaved with exertion, hard as…
“We brought your things, milady.”
Her gaze snapped up and she caught his sly grin. Stepping aside, she gestured into the room. “Thank you. Please put them in the corner where they’ll be out of the way.”
Bran strained to help Calum maneuver her heavy trunk. “Hello, milady.”
Calum tarried in front of the fireplace while he supervised the others, and then dismissed them. Last out, Bran closed the door. Anne found it necessary to study the tapestry and repeatedly interpret the three words there.
I shine not burn.
“The fire feels warm.” Calum’s deep voice flowed like thick sorghum.
“You must be chilled.” Anne headed to the bowl and ewer to fetch a drying cloth and her toe caught on the edge of the rug. Her arms flung out and she fell straight into Calum’s chest—the very thing she was trying to avoid. His arms slipped around her waist and stopped her tumble.
“Pardon me.” Anne placed a trembling hand on his chest. His heart hammered against her palm. “I-I am so very clumsy.”
“Are ye all right?” He clasped her hand. Oh dear Lord, he was soaked through, yet his hands were warm. She cast her eyes down to keep from staring at the transparent linen stretched across his muscled chest. The smell of sea salt and musk washed over her as if she’d been struck by a frigid wave herself.
“I trust everything in your trunks is secured just how ye packed it. I didna want anyone to rifle through your things by chance, so I had them brought up straight away.”
She dared to glance at his face. Mistake. His penetrating blue eyes met hers. The hunger in his stare made her step into him. He strengthened his grip on her hand ever so slightly.
Anne fixed her gaze on the large calloused fingers wrapped around hers, terrified her eyes would betray her heart thundering against her stomacher. “You best remove those wet clothes before you catch your death.”
His rough thumb brushed over her fingers and his gaze dropped. Anne swore it stopped at her breasts, but it continued downward as he bent to kiss her hand. His breath was warm against her fingers and Anne sucked inhaled as the gooseflesh raced from her hand to the tips of her breasts.
“I must apologize. The warmth of the fire felt so good, I hadn’t a mind to move.” He took a step toward the door. “We will sup soon. I’ll fetch ye at dusk.”
“W-why you? Why not Bran or Mara? Surely you have your hands full.”
Hurt flashed across his face. “As you prefer.”
The door banged closed. Anne groaned and pressed her face into her hands. She could not allow him to come for her. Every moment in his presence had become pure torture. Each time he touched her, the tingling would linger. Her own flesh had betrayed her upbringing and breeding. Anne imagined the countess’s dour frown. Mother would lock her in her chamber for a year simply for looking at a man like Calum MacLeod.