CHAPTER Seven
Calum’s scent lingered on everything. Each time Anne closed her eyes, she felt his lips caress her hands, travel up her arm and claim her mouth. She’d actually kissed him, turned to butter in his arms and allowed him to show her how. The worst thing? She had wanted him to do it, prayed he would—and now she’d had him swirl his tongue inside her mouth, she craved more. Every inch of her flesh screamed for Calum MacLeod, the pirate, to put his hands on her and flutter kisses across her skin.
Sleep strayed from her grasp. Anne imagined him touching her with his rough hands, hands that wielded a sword and worked beside his men, hands that had shown her tenderness. She closed her eyes and saw John’s hand cup Mara’s breast. She brushed her fingers across her nipple. To her shock, a moist gush of yearning pooled at the most sacred apex of her body.
With a moan, Anne flung back the bedclothes and paced the cold floor. A month? How will I endure this for a month? How can my weak flesh resist him? She stood at the window, pulled back the furs and looked out over the bay. The outline of wooden skiffs blended into the smooth grey-brown stones of the beach.
Could she escape? What danger lay across the sound? This was northern Scotland, a land where barbarian’s lurked in the mountains. Without a guide, her chances of making it to England safely seemed slim. Could she convince Bran to help? Though only two and ten, the boy was nearly as tall as a man, broad shouldered, as well. But Bran’s fierce loyalty to Calum gave her pause.
Anne marched to the hearth and tossed a clump of peat onto the fire. Escape might be the only way to stop the yearning. But, did she really want to rush into Lord Wharton’s arms? She could not slip away without a plan. That would be foolish.
In the interim, she needed to find something to occupy her time—and keep her mind off the devilishly handsome laird.
Brochel Castle would have the same issues as Titchfield House, and by the state of the keep, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a challenging cause. She’d apply herself to the task on the morrow.
***
“Are ye awake, milady?” a female voice asked.
“Yes.” Anne tied off the stitch and snipped it with her sewing shears. “I was just mending a hole in the duvet.”
Mara stepped inside holding a tray. “I brought ye some porridge. I thought ye might never come down.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I’d mend some of these holes before the coverlet started molting. I should have gone down to the hall.”
“’Tis no problem.” Mara pattered over to the table and set the tray atop. “Ye must be sick with worry, being a hostage and all.”
Hostage? She hadn’t thought of herself that way. Mara looked at her questioningly as if waiting for a reply. Anne slipped into the wooden chair. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Ye must yearn for yer husband something awful.”
Anne couldn’t hold back her shrug. How could she yearn for a man she did not yet know?
“No?” Mara pressed.
With a sigh, Anne explained what had happened and why she’d been found alone in her stateroom. “You see, I’ve no idea what he looks like. He’s eight and fifty. At that age, I am not convinced I want to meet him.”
Mara shuddered. “I shouldna let John leave this morning.”
John’s gone? Already? A rock formed in the pit of Anne’s stomach. “’Tis nothing that can be helped. I cannot stay here. I’d take a skiff and row down the coast if I thought it safe.”
“I wouldna think twice about doing that. Ye’d be taken by Gypsies or worse.”
“Gypsies? In the Highlands?”
“Aye, they’re everywhere.” Mara ran her hands over her linen wimple. “Are ye comfortable here?”
Anne spread her arms wide. “I’m staying in the laird’s chamber. That’s a situation which cannot last.”
Mara took the seat across from Anne. At Titchfield House it would be unheard of for a servant to take a seat uninvited, but one look at Mara’s angelic face and Anne didn’t mind. Mara had an endearing air about her, and Anne needed a friend now more than ever.
The Scottish woman leaned forward with a sly grin, as if she had a secret she couldn’t keep. “He likes ye.”
Anne picked up her spoon and studied her porridge, praying the fire in her cheeks hadn’t resulted in a brilliant blush. “My heavens. What are you talking about?”
“Calum.” Mara sat up, appearing satisfied with herself. “He looks at ye the way a starvin’ man eyes a leg of lamb—same way John looks at me.”
Anne fought her smile by forcing the corners of her mouth into a frown. “Oh please. There must be hundreds of eligible women in the Hebrides who could win the laird’s affections.”
“A few have come to Raasay on their father’s arm, but they always go home with long faces.”
“Why would that be? Surely Calum would want an heir.”
“Of course he does, but he’s a difficult man to please—stubborn like all Highlanders if ye ask me.” Mara sprang up and studied Anne’s handiwork. “I think he wants to marry for love.” Her voice trailed off, as if that were the most romantic thought she’d ever had.
“Marry for love?” Anne shook her head—that was a fantasy she could ill afford. “You must be daft.”
Mara crossed to the bed and slammed her fist into a red satin pillow, giving it a hearty fluff. “Why would ye think that? I fell in love with John. Heavens, I cannot imagine being married to any other man.”
Anne scooped a spoon of porridge. Calum probably hadn’t chosen a wife because he was too busy privateering. “May I ask you a sensitive question?”
“Hmm. Ask it and I’ll tell ye if I’m able to answer.”
Anne set down her spoon and dabbed her lips with the cloth. “What’s it like—ah—being married to someone you love?”
Mara smiled as if she’d opened a window to a field full of fragrant blooms. “Tis like sleeping with yer dearest friend every night.” She lifted her hand across to her shoulder and it skimmed down to her wrist. “Except he’s a brawny man, and in his arms I feel safe and protected…and loved. As if I’m queen over all the Earth.”
Mara’s gaze turned distant. With a turn of her head, she shook her finger at Anne. “Ye should have seen Calum when ye were dancing last night. I thought he’d go mad watching ye with the others.”
Anne again frowned, fighting her urge to smile. “I’m his prisoner. Under his protection until he can deliver me to the baron. ’Tis all.”
“Think what ye like. I ken what I saw.” Mara bustled to the door. “I must away. I have to find somewhere to store all the food from the Flying Swan, see to the day’s meals, change the linens, see to the sick—there’s a nasty cough going ’round—Oh yes, and there’s never enough time for all the housekeeping.”
“You’re not doing all those things yourself?”
“Aye, who else?”
“Mara, you cannot possibly think you can take on everything and still maintain your sanity.”
“Well, someone’s got to do it.”
“You’re right, someone must, but not you. I have experience as the mistress of an estate. Your job is to see the tasks done to your satisfaction.” She held up her finger. “It is not for you to do them yourself.”
“But what am I to do? Everyone is busy. They’ll think me a laggard if I dunna pull me weight.”
“They will not. They will respect you for your clever management. Let me dress and I’ll watch you work. If the keep looks anything like it did yesterday, you could use a lesson or two from an earl’s daughter.”
Mara smoothed a hand down her worn kirtle. “I dunna know.”
Anne threw open the lid of her trunk and found her apron. “What harm is there? Besides, I must do something rather than sit in this dank chamber waiting to be whisked back to England.”
***
Calum took a skiff over to the Flying Swan right after John left for Applecross on the mainland.
Walking the deck with his boatswain, Robert, Calum discussed necessary changes. “We need to rid ourselves of the obvious signs, like the swan maiden on the bow.”
“What shall we name her?”
The first thing that came to Calum’s mind was Lady Anne. That wouldn’t do. It would remind him of her long after the woman was gone—haunt him even. “Let’s call her The Golden Sun.” He ran his fingers along the rigging. “’Twill remind everyone of our crest, yet will no’ drive anyone to suspect the MacLeod’s of Raasay.”
“The Golden Sun?” The boatswain scratched his chin. “I like it.”
Calum patted Robert’s back and led him to the captain’s cabin, tossing his satchel on the bed. Together they went over the drawings of the ship and pointed out where the carpenters could make changes so the ship could no longer be recognized as the Flying Swan. It wouldn’t take much—adding a cannon portal on each side, changing the shape of the bow, adding a poop deck—all subtle changes to make the ship unrecognizable.
“How much time do ye need?” Calum asked.
“Two, mayhap three months, given we have the materials.”
“Good. Check the stores and get back to me with a more definite timeline. I’ve heard word the Spaniards are hauling loads of silver from the New World and Sir John Hawkins is the only one plundering.” He leaned in. “I want a piece of that.”
Robert rubbed his hands together. “Aye, captain. I’ll have the carpenters start on it straight away.” His eyes strayed to the satchel. “Are ye planning on staying on the ship?”
“I thought about it.”
“Has it anything to do with the English lassie ye were dancing up a storm with last eve?”
Calum bristled, yanked open the satchel, and pulled out a shirt. “What of her?”
Robert ran a hand across his beard. “So you’re hiding from the clan?”
“Never.” Calum threw the shirt on the bed. “I’m putting a safe distance between me and what I ken I shouldn’t be trifling with. Mind yer step when ye leave. The rain’s made the deck slippery and a fellow can end up in the sea with no one to throw him a rope.”
***
“You cannot read or write?” Anne asked and then cringed. She was well aware few had access to tutors as she had.
“Nay, milady.” Mara threw up her arms and walked toward the kitchen door.
“Wait. Forgive me. I can be a muttonhead at times.” Anne patted the bench beside her and motioned for Mara to resume her seat at the table. “You could draw pictures and use ticks to count the number of barrels.”
“But why is it so important to record the inventory? When we run out, we’re out.”
“If you know how many barrels of oats you have, you can determine when you’ll run out. It will help you plan for sewing seed—you might even have enough of something to sell.” She avoided suggesting they send a ship out and steal it. After all, she wanted them to become self-sufficient so they wouldn’t need to plunder English ships.
Mara opened her mouth as if to object but shut it. Leaning forward, she looked at the parchment.
Anne drew a bowl with a squiggly line across the top. “This could be your sign for oats.”
“Aye, that looks like a bowl of porridge.”
“Good. How many barrels did you count?”
“Ten.”
“Easy, just make ten marks like this.” She drew precise strikes in a row beside the picture. “When you open a new barrel, put a line through it like this—Now how many barrels of oats are left?”
Mara hesitated, but didn’t need to count the tick marks. “Nine.”
“Do you know how often the keep goes through a barrel of oats?”
“It takes about a fortnight.”
“So how many weeks do you have in store?” Anne held her breath, praying the math wouldn’t be difficult for someone with no education.
Mara looked at the paper and counted twice for every tick.
“Eighteen weeks?”
Anne clapped her hands. “Exactly! You’re very good at this.”
“Ye think?”
“I know it. It comes natural to you.”
Grinning, Mara sat a bit taller.
By the midday meal, they had all the food stores inventoried. Anne’s heart swelled with pride when she watched Mara show the cooks how to mark off items when they pulled things out of the larder.
Even Friar Pat came by the kitchen and inspected the morning’s work. “Calum will be pleased.”
“Do you think so?”
“Aye, child.”
Anne looked at his brown habit and bit her bottom lip. “I hope I won’t go to hell over this.”
“And why would ye say that?”
“I’m helping the enemy manage their stolen wares.”
“First of all, we’re no’ the enemy.” He grasped her shoulders. “And secondly, these people are starvin’. Aye, Calum may have taken the Flying Swan, but he did it for a good cause.”
“Men were killed.”
“He tries to spare as many lives as possible, but this is war. Do ye ken what the English have done to our lands? Do ye ken about the embargoes?” The friar dropped his hands and shook his head. “They left us with nay other choice.”
Anne wanted to believe him, but sighed. She was definitely going to hell. “Will you bless me, Father?” After all, her family had secretly remained Catholic. At least she needn’t hide it on Raasay.
“Aye, child.” He placed his hand on Anne’s head and made the sign of the cross, reciting Latin prayers.
By supper, Anne and Mara had organized a cleaning schedule and had assigned all women to specific tasks. Mara’s face glowed with amazement at how much easier it would be for each person to have their own area of responsibility. No one would be overburdened, and if things went as planned, Mara would have idle time in the afternoon.
Anne sat beside Mara at the kitchen table, enjoying a cup of warm milk. Mara bit her bottom lip. “I’m a bit worried on how to go about telling everyone about it.”
“I think you should do it at the evening meal—have Calum announce it. You’ll have far more cooperation if he shows his support.”
***
When the bell rang for supper, Anne stood along the wall and watched the clan pour into the hall. She gazed past the door, searching for Calum. Norman sauntered past, his shoulder brushing Anne’s. “He’ll nay be coming.”
“Oh?” Anne lifted her chin, giving him her best show of indifference.
“He sent a message with Robert saying the ship needed his undivided attention for a few days.” Norman grasped her elbow. “Let me escort ye to the table.”
Prickles of warning fired across Anne’s skin. The hold Norman had on her arm was none too gentle and he reeked of whisky. She pulled back, but he held fast.
“’Tis no proper way for a married woman to act, flaunting herself so.”
Anne jerked her arm away. “Pardon me? I have done nothing of the sort.”
“I saw the way he ogled ye while you gaily danced away last eve.” He stopped and faced her. “Have ye forgotten you’re a hostage?”
“The fact has not left my mind for one minute.”
“If it were up to me, ye’d be locked in the tower, just as the English do to our kin when they’re captured.” He leaned close and inhaled. “Ye should smell like shite, yet ye’ve been treated like some sort of highborn lassie, sleeping in the laird’s chamber, traipsing around the keep in all yer finery like the damnable Queen of England.”
“If my presence in the hall offends you, then I shall happily retire from your sight.”
Anne didn’t wait for his reply. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she raced from the hall. Mara called after her, but Anne continued up the stairs. She was Calum’s guest and the wife of one of his bitter enemies. Is that why he was staying away? Was he hiding from her?
Anne returned to her chamber and locked the door. She wrung her hands. Blast Calum for kissing her. He had taken advantage of her weakness and her inexperience.
For a moment, she paced her room, hands clenched tight. Tears stung the back of her eyes, welled hot and salty. She threw herself onto the bed, and beat a fist into a pillow. With every hit, she muttered, “The sooner I am gone from this place…the better!”
Anger surged hot, and ebbed, leaving her limp as a doll. Pushing her face into the pillow, she gave into the tears, her shoulders shuddering as she wept.