by Merry Farmer
Still, they both collapsed with groans, breathing heavily. Under him, she went limp, her arms and legs dropping their holds on his body to pool, boneless, against the coverlet. And she was grinning.
Reverently, Liam leaned down to place a kiss at the corner of her lips. Then another against her neck.
“I love ye,” he whispered. When she didn’t respond, he hoisted himself up on his elbows to meet her eyes. “I love ye, Char. I love everything about ye. Yer mind, yer passion. I’ll love ye until my dying breath.”
She cupped his cheek, her lips drawn into a smile glorious to behold. “Of course ye will. For I love ye, and nae one will say otherwise.”
And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he’d found his forever.
Charlotte would never forget the day her life changed forever.
She was holding Liam’s hand as they strolled through the courtyard, and a messenger arrived with a scroll. Her love had read it, then looked at her with pain in his lovely blue eyes. She took it from his limp fingers and read King Robert Bruce’s summons.
Liam was an important man to their King. He’d fought beside the Bruce at Linlithgow and Dumbarton, and had been one of the first Scot warriors into Perth when the Bruce took back the royal burgh. King Robert trusted Liam, and she was proud of him.
Proud someone as brave and trustworthy as he had chosen to fall in love with her.
It was perfectly reasonable he’d be called back to his duties, and she loved him for it. Still, as she’d looked into his eyes, she couldn’t help feeling…scared.
There was something in his expression, which seemed to be warning her, the simple future they’d planned might not come to be.
Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, and as she stood outside the gates and watched him ride toward the shore, and the boat which would take him to his royal cousin, Charlotte reminded herself of their love.
Liam loved her and would return to her.
But never once did he look back.
A month passed, and no matter how certain she still was of her feelings for him, that little fact continued to eat at her.
She retreated to her room and curled up on her bed—the bed in which Liam had once held her in his arms and whispered such sweet words after one of the rare occasions they’d made love indoors—and let the tears fall.
She spent the afternoon there, which is why she hadn’t heard news of the visitor. It wasn’t until her father sent for her that Charlotte realized she needed to make herself presentable.
My life isnae falling apart. Liam loves me, and I love him. We will be together.
So why did her sense of dread only increase as she approached her father’s solar?
Da was waiting inside, holding a piece of parchment and paying her no attention, as usual. The same couldn’t be said of his companion.
“Lady Charlotte,” the man welcomed her, his eyes on her breasts under the rumpled gown. “When ye are my wife, ye will learn to comport yerself, I trust?”
Her hands curled into fists in the wool of her skirts. “What?” she asked hoarsely.
The man—wasn’t he one of the MacDonald’s younger sons?—waved one hand dismissively. “Ye look as if ye’ve slept in that thing, woman. And yer eyes are all puffy. Nae wife of mine will appear less than perfect.” He lifted a shoulder and turned toward her father. “I’m looking for a biddable ornament with admirable assets, MacLeod.”
“Ye’ll get Charlotte, and ye’ll be grateful,” Da growled, still examining the document.
Charlotte was having trouble breathing, and her pulse had become a dull roar in her ears. “Da?” she managed to choke out. “What…?”
What was going on?
Wife of his?
Was that a marriage contract her father was reading?
Marriage to a MacDonald?
But Liam…
Liam was the man she loved. The one who’d vowed to spend forever with her.
Her father finally looked up and met her eyes. “The MacDonald and I have decided yer future, girl.” He gestured to the other man. “John MacDonald is willing to marry ye.”
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open.
Willing?
Was this another attempt to forge an alliance with a clan, who was their enemy more often as not?
Ignoring John—and the way he was staring at her chest and licking his lips—Charlotte stepped toward her father, knowing she had to convince him. “Da, Liam and I…we are in love.” She heard the note of desperation in her voice, but couldn’t silence it. “We have an agreement.”
To his credit, her father did shift his weight awkwardly, as if affected by her words. But then he shook his head and slammed the contract down on the desk in front of him.
“Ye would put yer own wants ahead of yer clan’s future?” he growled, reaching for the stylus. “John is an ambitious man and will do us all proud.”
“I donae want an ambitious husband, Da!” She was torn between tears and anger, her nails pressing into her palms to hold back the urge to scream or hit something. “I want Liam! He’s kinsman to the King,” she added in desperation, taking another step toward her father, her hand out in supplication. “Surely that makes him a good ally?”
Da had pressed his lips together then, his palm flat against the desk, as he’d leaned forward and seemed to consider her words. Charlotte held her breath and tried to stave off the horror with hope.
Even John quit his study of her assets and focused on her father. Her blood was pounding in her ears, and she found herself praying.
But when he finally shook his head, she felt her knees go weak with defeat.
“Liam Bruce cannae marry ye, lass, because he’s betrothed to another.”
That’s when her knees gave out on her completely, and Charlotte sank to the floor. Her palms flattened against the cool flagstones, as if she could draw some of their strength into her shaking bones.
Betrothed? Her Liam? The man who’d sworn to love her until his dying breath...was engaged to another?
“Betrothed?” she asked weakly, tears threatening.
Da nodded brusquely, seeming uncomfortable with her display of emotion. “He’s a Bruce, lass. Of course his royal cousin would see to his betrothal, some Lowland heiress with a powerful father.”
Oh God.
Two fat tears trailed down her cheeks and plopped onto the back of her hands, as she stared down at what felt like her only anchor to the world.
Had her heart stopped beating altogether?
Betrothed to another.
I’ll love ye until my dying breath.
Oh God.
Her father cleared his throat. “An alliance with the MacDonalds is what’s best for me, and ye’ll do as ye’re told, girl.”
John spoke up again then, his voice smug and oily. “I want a wife who understands her place.”
A wife’s place was beside her husband, was it not?
In confusion, still not entirely sure she understood what was happening, Charlotte lifted her gaze from the floor to stare at the stranger she was supposed to marry.
“Her place, John?” she whispered, allowing her anger to seep into her voice.
He didn’t notice, judging by his smirk as he crouched beside her. “Behind me. Or under me, as the case may be.” He reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I want heirs, ye ken.”
Before she could spit her defiance, he thrust her away from him and stood in one motion, turning toward her father once more. “Let us sign the betrothal, MacLeod, so I can escort yer daughter to her new home and start instructing her in her new duties.”
Da grunted as he scrawled something across the bottom of the parchment and held the stylus out for the younger man to do the same.
Hollowly, Charlotte watched as her father reach for the wax to press his seal into the document, and knew her life would never be the same.
And she was right.
Chapter 1
Late spring, 1315
The knuckles of her hands were pale from the force of her grip on the bow rail, as Charlotte MacLeod peered toward the distant speck. It was near impossible to see from so far away, but if her intelligence was correct, she was sure it was another birlinn. And not just any boat, but one carrying a very important passenger.
Elizabeth Bruce, Queen of Scotland.
Whom Charlotte planned to kidnap.
“Calculating again, sister?” Tavish asked as he joined her at the rail, the wind playing merry hell with his auburn curls. “Ye’ve gone over the plan so many times, even Dane has it memorized, and he’s a lad.”
“He’s six,” she murmured, still staring at the distant boat. “And he’s no’ to come into battle.”
Of all her family, Tav was the one she loved best. They were twins, the youngest of the MacLeod siblings. He’d been the one to teach her swordplay and sailing, and had stood beside her as her biggest support, before she’d been sent to Finlaggan with John.
And when she’d needed help to escape…? Well, Tav had been there for her then as well.
But despite their mission, his tone was still teasing when he replied, “Dane’s six, aye, but this is my boat and he’s my son, so I get to decide what he does and doesnae do.”
Frowning, Charlotte forced herself to release her hold on the rail and turn to her brother. They’d argued over this before; she couldn’t bear the thought of her wee nephew being hurt if this went wrong.
“Ye swore this was my raid. I’m in command,” she reminded him.
“Aye, once metal meets meat. Ye’ve planned it all and deserve to see it come to fruition. But ye ken fuck-all about actual sailing.”
“No’ true,” she snapped. “I ken at least as much as Dane.”
The grin, which was never far from her brother’s lips, finally burst free. “Ye’re no’ wrong there. The lad cannae seem to put down his pipes long enough to learn a halyard from a forestay.”
“He’ll stay on the birlinn, aye?” she asked, her tone gentle. Wheedling. “I’ll no’ be able to concentrate, worrying for him.”
With a great sigh, Tav rolled his eyes and braced his palms against the rail beside her. “Fine. But afore ye start crowing, ken I wasnae going to allow him aboard the Queen’s birlinn. ‘Tis safer here.”
So he’d been merely teasing her about allowing Dane on the raid. How like her rarely serious brother.
“Now, the first rule of pirating is to pay attention to yer prize.” He nodded toward the distant birlinn.
With a snort, she turned her attention back to the ship. It was closer now, close enough to see some of the more obvious details.
“First rule?” she murmured distractedly. “I didnae realize there were rules.”
“Oh, aye,” her brother scoffed. “The second is learning how appealing the deck of a pirate ship can be to a certain type of lass. Dane’s mother was like that, as I recall.”
Charlotte knew her brother was only trying to make her laugh. There was no way he knew of her secret dalliance on the deck of this very birlinn, well over a year ago.
And there was no way he could know how much her heart ached at the memory of her gullibility, the way she’d taken Liam into her body and believed his lies about loving her until his dying breath.
She swallowed down her shame and anger, and focused instead on their prize. She couldn’t even bring herself to respond to Tav’s flippant references to his many dalliances.
“By all the saints, ye’re somber,” her brother said as he nudged her shoulder. “ ’Tis a raid, no’ a funeral.”
Her fingers flexed against the wood of the rail. “Is that no’ a danger, when pirating?”
“Of course,” he quipped, with a snort. “Rule three, I believe.”
She leaned forward, eager to get a better look at her prize. “Ye’re a terrible pirate, Tav.”
“I’m a brilliant pirate. The Black Banner is feared by fat merchants from here to Durness.”
“So feared, ye’ll no’ even tell Da what ye do on those long months away from the keep, aye?” She shot him a smirk, knowing it was a sore point.
Sure enough, her brother scowled. “Da is a horse’s arse, and I’ll be happy no’ to return to Lewes, after what he did to ye.”
Her father had betrothed her to the very devil, and Charlotte wasn’t sure she could forgive him either. But she couldn’t go back to Finlaggan, and no one in Scone would listen to her. If today’s mission didn’t work, she had no place to go, except back to Lewes.
Charlotte swallowed as she and her brother both peered at the distant ship in silence. Their birlinn was tacking toward the prize, who likely still didn’t realize the danger heading their way.
Long moments passed before Charlotte allowed her shoulders to slump in relief.
“Is it her?” Tav murmured.
“ ’Tis her.” Charlotte examined their target. “She flies no colors, as Tosh said, but the sailors wear a bit of yellow, see? And the stern…” She trailed off.
The birlinn was larger than theirs, but not by much, and not at all worthy of the Bruce’s Queen. But that was why he’d chosen it for her return, after all, for it was supposed to be a covert trip, with no announcements, until she joined him in Scone.
So her method of transport was not at all fit for a queen, but it was ideal for a woman who’d spent the past eight years as a prisoner of the English. All the same, having been kept in isolation and treated as little more than a pawn, it probably seemed quite luxurious to her.
From where she stood, Charlotte could see the tent erected in the stern of the vessel, a platform set high enough to catch the breeze, which missed the men on the rowing benches.
There were likely couches and tables set up inside the tent, filled with every sort of indulgence the returning Queen deserved.
Not for the first time since planning this mission, Charlotte swallowed down the spike of regret which pierced her stomach. Queen Elizabeth had endured much because of her role as the Bruce’s wife, and even though Charlotte hated to add to the woman’s pain, it was that very role which made the Queen her best chance to complete this mission.
“Char?” her brother quietly prompted.
Charlotte swallowed again, then schooled her features into a determined mask and nodded firmly.
“Aye, it’s the Queen’s. I’m sure of it.”
From the way Tav watched her as he returned her nod and straightened, she knew he understood her hesitation.
“Are ye sure this is the only way, Char?”
“Aye,” she snapped. “Ye said ye trusted me. And donae call me that.”
It was a childhood nickname, one her brothers all used. Her brothers…and one other.
By sheer force of will, she ignore the memories the thought provoked—memories of the man who’d called her that with affection, as he’d playfully skimmed his fingertips across her breast, or kissed the sensitive spot below her ear, or held her gently after she’d collapsed, spent, atop him.
Liam Bruce was gone from her life. He’d run back to Scone when his royal cousin had snapped his fingers, and it was only after he’d long been gone, her father had told her the man was contracted to marry a Lowlander.
He’d been merely dallying with her.
Her brother must’ve seen the play of emotions across her face, because he grimaced and patted her hand, where it rested once more on the rail. “Aye, I trust ye, wee sister. Ye’ve a sharper mind than all of us, even if Da doesnae see it.”
She had to clear her throat to get the words out. “And donae forget it,” she rasped.
“Banner!” The cry came from atop the birlinn’s single mast. Wee Robbie, a lad not much older than Dane, perched awkwardly on the cross-spar, one bare foot braced on the mast and one against the rigging, his sharp eyes peering at their distant prize. “They’re pointing at us!”
Suddenly serious, Tav stepped away from the rail. “Are they runn
ing?” he called up to the lad.
“No’ yet. They’ve nae reason to suspect.”
Charlotte moved up beside her brother. “Except we’re miles and miles from bloody land.” It was why she’d chosen this spot, south of Mull, for the attack. “And they ken why they’re out here, but why in the hell would we be out here?”
Tav’s grin flashed. “Mayhap we like the fishing?”
She snorted as he moved down the center of the boat, calling out preparations. “Auld Robbie, hold our course until Charlotte says otherwise. I donae want to give them enough time to run. Rowers, to your benches.” He tilted his head to peer up at the billowing white mainsail and the lad atop it. “Wee Robbie, when I give the word, ye ken what to do! Beware the black!”
“Beware the black!” the men roared in response, as they scrambled to their positions.
Like Tav, like Charlotte, they each wore black breeches and shirt. The clothing was expensive to dye, but traditional. Their uncle hadn’t been the first Black Banner, the name which chilled the hearts of fat merchants from here to Reay, but he had been the one to teach Tavish what he’d known. She and her twin had spent hours sitting on Uncle Rory’s knees, hearing stories of his adventures.
They’d been mere bairns when Tav had declared he’d be the next Black Banner, and their uncle had laughed and agreed. Since the man had married Aunt Citrine and retired from the sea to rule the Sinclair clan, he often invited his “favorite niece and nephew” to visit.
It had been at the Sinclair keep where she’d first met Liam Bruce.
Tav nodded briskly to her as he returned forward, two long black scarves dangling from his fingertips. He tossed one to her, then began wrapping the other around his neck and lower face. It too was part of the tradition of the Black Banner; no one knew the man’s face, or what he looked like.
The Black Banner was part legend, part fairy tale. After all, the masked pirate had been terrorizing the Western Isles and further for generations. Many didn’t believe in him…which suited Tav just fine. He’d often laughed about the way merchants panicked when they saw his black sail on the horizon, just as the stories claimed.