The Scot Corsair (Bonnie Bride Series Book 3)

by Fiona Monroe

  Roderick barked a laugh. It was an involuntary reaction.

  Duncan put his fingertips together, and continued to watch him.

  "You may see," said Roderick eventually, "that I am not drowned."

  Duncan held his gaze for a few moments more, then with a kick of his heel against the leg of the chair, launched himself back on his feet and flung his arms around Roderick.

  Roderick returned the embrace without thought, clinging to his own unfamiliar flesh and blood as if to a raft in a storm-tossed ocean. The skinny child of his memory had turned solid and strong, life-sized, and smelled of horseflesh.

  "By God, brother," said Duncan, over his shoulder. "I wish I could say it was good to see you, but truth to tell—I rode all yesterday and all last night in the hope of finding that reports of your resurrection had been exaggerated."

  "You wished me drowned, then?"

  "I wished you anywhere but here, if you had not been." Duncan released his grip, but held onto his arms. "I could not be sure, I didn't know for certain until I set eyes on you just now, but I have suspected for years that my conveniently vanished brother, and the Black Scot of lore and legend were one and the same."

  "I had not thought my fame so very widespread."

  "In certain naval circles, you have quite a reputation. Don't look so alarmed, dear brother. I've taken special pains to keen myself well-informed. Nobody but myself, and a few dozen monolingual cailleachan have made the connection. The militia isn't lining the streets of Aberdeen waiting to arrest you, not yet—not when I rode through an hour ago, at any rate."

  "But how did you—" He stopped himself. Somehow, he knew how, or he very much suspected how. But, on the other hand, how...?

  "But in the name of Hades, Roddie, why did you come here at all? It won't take long for old Melville to work it out, if Sir Roderick Buccleuch bobs back out of his watery grave."

  He was referring to Viscount Melville, First Lord of the Admiralty, who as head of the Navy was theoretically in charge of pursuing and prosecuting pirates. Roderick doubted that Lord Melville would take a personal interest in the matter. "I have no intention of coming back to life," he said, unable to suppress a faint answering smile. "Nor do I have any desire to assume the mantle of Sir Roderick. I have business in Scotland, and once I've taken care of it, I'll be gone again and leave no trace behind, I hope. You were never supposed to know I was here."

  "And what business could that be, worth risking your neck for?"

  Roderick pulled away from his brother's grip, and wondered how much to tell him. Perhaps he was being foolish to trust this man he did not in truth know, after finding him actually waiting at the harbour for the ship to dock, and clearly possessing more knowledge than he would have imagined possible about his career as a buccaneer. What if the Navy had already identified him as the Black Scot, and Duncan had agreed to entrap him; either under duress, to preserve what he could of the clan honour, or willingly, perhaps for the same reason.

  A heaviness settled in his breast at the very thought, a hollow feeling in his throat that was like panic and intense sadness combined.

  "How did you know to find me?" he demanded, ignoring the question for now.

  A shadow passed over Duncan's face, fleetingly, and Roderick's heart sank lower.

  "As I said, I keep myself informed," he replied, easily, but after a pause.

  "Duncan, for God's sake—am I watched?"

  "I've already told you, no. Not as far as I know. But I wouldn't parade around too conspicuously—"

  "On your honour, as a Buccleuch—"

  "Well now, that is a can of worms."

  "As my brother then, by the afternoons we spent fishing in the loch, by Raineach's grave—" Raineach was the deerhound which Roderick had saved as a puppy, one the gamekeeper had been intending to drown as the runt of its litter, and given to eight year old Duncan as his first dog. He had grown after all into a fine tall hound, only to die at the age of two when he chased a rabbit over a cliff. Roderick had helped Duncan bury him, and it was the only time he could remember seeing his little brother cry. "Swear you will take care of someone for me, if I am to be arrested. Take her away to safety."

  He raised his eyebrows quizzically. "A lady? I will do my best. Your lady, I take it?"

  "No. She is my prisoner." There seemed no point in holding back the full story any longer. "She was on board this ship when we captured it. My men and I, near to Barbados. I have returned to Scotland with the intention of ransoming her to her family."

  "Are you sure her family have any money to give you?"

  "Her father is the Marquess of Crieff. So yes, I'm sure."

  For some reason, Duncan laughed. "The Marquess of Crieff has a good number of daughters. Which one have you got locked in your hold?"

  "The youngest. Lady Elspeth."

  "Oh! Lady Elspeth! The youngest, and fairest of them all."

  "I think you are acquainted with her?" Roderick said, not quite liking something mocking in his brother's attitude. He did not have much of a sense of humour on the subject of Elspeth, he found. He could not bear for her to be the subject of ribald banter.

  How odd it was too that wee Duncan should speak of a woman in tones—he could not call it otherwise—of faintly lascivious appreciation? When he last saw Duncan, his voice had been as high as a girl's and he had cared for nothing but dogs and pike fishing.

  "A little," said Duncan, again with a smile that Roderick did not quite like. "But Roddie, are you out of your mind, wanting to ransom her?"

  "The Marquess is one of the wealthiest men in Scotland."

  "Aye! And her brother is one of the most powerful men in the Royal Navy! That, in case you haven't been paying full attention, is the organisation dedicated to hunting you down and hanging you by the neck until dead. How much were you going to ask the old man for?"

  "Five hundred pounds."

  "Good God! I'll give you a thousand of your own rightful inheritance, if you turn the girl loose on the streets of Aberdeen and steer this ship right back out to sea. It's just not worth the risk."

  "I cannot do that," said Roderick. "The situation is more complicated... Lady Elspeth's situation is more complicated than that."

  Duncan flung himself back in the Captain's chair again and folded his arms. "Go on."

  "I do not like discussing Lady Elspeth's affairs without her knowledge."

  "I commend your delicacy, brother, but coming from someone who was intending to hold her to ransom, I find your fastidiousness odd."

  "I never intended to—" Roderick broke off, realising how ridiculous it would sound to say that he never meant her any actual harm. How would he enforce a ransom demand, without making an implicit threat?

  "If it helps," said Duncan, fiddling with a small plaster bust of Admiral Nelson, "she is the reason I'm here. Or rather, she told me to find you here. She also told me not to mention her name, which to be fair to my own gentlemanly delicacy, I did not. Not first, at any rate."

  "I might have known!" He had known, though it seemed incredible. Fury and a quite different sense of betrayal flooded through him. "She sent a plea for aid by that Navy Captain after all."

  "Not to me," Duncan said, looking wary at his reaction. "To me, she sent a very touching letter painting a pretty picture of your heroism in rescuing her from a band of desperados, and urging me to fly to Aberdeen if I wanted to embrace my long lost brother. Here. You may read it, and blush." He fished inside his coat, which he had not yet removed, and produced a letter.

  Roderick took the single sheet from him. He recognised Elspeth's pretty, flowing hand, and saw that the direction was stamped with a courier's mark from Glasgow.

  "I received it in Edinburgh two days ago, just as I was on the point of setting off for home," Duncan continued. "My sister—our sister, Caroline—was married a couple of weeks ago, and I'm throwing a ceilidh at Lochlannan to celebrate. I ought to be there right now. Instead, I jumped on my horse and rode hard for twelve
hours straight to get here before you were dragged off in chains."

  Roderick had finished reading Elspeth's letter, and barely registered his brother's words. "She is impossible," he muttered. "I told her I could not—I made it quite clear that the family could never know I was alive. And she wrote to you? And wrote such a farrago of fairytales—"

  "Oh, don't be too hard on her, Roddie. It's clear from that dashing portrait that she's enamoured of you."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Why not? Such a fine, flourishing pirate king as you have become, just the thing to appeal to a spirited young lady of high birth and even higher passions—"

  "By God, Duncan, you are my brother and despite everything I am pleased to see you, but if you speak one more time with disrespect of Lady Elspeth I shall—"

  Duncan held up his hands, not stirring from the chair. "My apologies, I meant no disrespect of any kind. In fact I have the very highest respect for the lady."

  Roderick slowed his breathing. He was still clutching the letter in his fist, crushing it.

  "But you were going to tell me why my very sensible suggestion of letting her ladyship loose, and fleeing these shores as fast as you can, was impractical."

  "Lady Elspeth," said Roderick slowly, "was sent to Barbados, not to visit cousins as she writes here, but to marry some plantation owner at her family's insistence, not by her own inclination. If she arrives back home without good explanation, they might think she ran away out of defiance. She is—well, I shall just say, from my own acquaintance with her, it is behaviour they might find easy to believe of her. I do not want any blame to attach to her, I do not want to cause her any uneasiness or difficulty with her family. I took her captive, it is my responsibility to ensure that her reputation does not suffer."

  "It's the old Earl of Atholl who runs the show at Dunwoodie now, you know. By all accounts, the Marquess himself is on his last gasp. And his lordship just married the only daughter of the Duke of Westmorland, less than half his age I'd say, and reputed a beauty, but what nineteen year old girl with fifty thousand is not? At any rate, he'll have things on his mind other than his little sister."

  "I do not," said Roderick grimly, "have a great opinion of Lord Atholl."

  "He is her eldest brother." Duncan's fingertips were poised together and he was watching him again, with his head on one side. "She is his responsibility, however you feel about the matter."

  "I know. And I cannot let him think that she is guilty of such gross disobedience and defiance."

  "All right, Roddie. This is what I suggest." Duncan made a lazy snatch at the letter in Roderick's hand. "Her ladyship tells such a thrilling tale of the high seas here, I think we should adopt it as the basis for our own. You will have to act the part of her protector rather than her captor, but I rather think you'll relish the role."

  "I am her protector."

  "I thought so. Well, let’s say that her ladyship was indeed attacked by pirates, but you fought them off, and are now escorting her home. Take her to Dunwoodie House, present yourself with a false name and history, and then—and I cannot emphasise this part enough—flee, with all possible speed. I meant what I said, I will give you a thousand pounds in whatever currency is most convenient to you. I'm sure I can arrange to draw it in Aberdeen while you take Lady Elspeth home."

  Roderick paced back and forth for a couple of minutes. His first impulse was to spurn the plan as ridiculous, and his inclination was very much against masquerading as Elspeth's heroic saviour. While he did indeed feel himself to be her protector, he knew that he had done her a very great wrong; and that taking her prisoner had not been the worst of it. And he had always been honest in his dishonesty. He had robbed and plundered and killed, but he had done so openly, without subterfuge, and never without due warning. He had never killed an unarmed man, he had never harmed a woman.

  "What," he said, "am I supposed to have defeated a band of pirates single handed?"

  "Details, dear brother." Duncan waved a hand. "You can supply them. You are, after all, the adept in this profession."

  "I will tell you a more likely story. The Americans are waging a campaign against us in the Caribbean. Until recently, my men and I had safe harbour on an island called Ilha de Perolas. The American Navy blockaded it and burned down the town, not long before we ran across the Heron. Thank God we happened to be at sea at the time, or we would have gone down with the rest of them. If that had not happened, I would probably have taken Lady Elspeth there while we decided what to do next. Suppose we say that when the Americans sacked the island, they found her a prisoner there, and asked a passing British merchant captain already en route to Scotland to give her safe passage home."

  "Ah! And you would be that gallant officer."

  Roderick nodded shortly. "The American attack on Ilha de Perolas really happened, and I cannot imagine her brother will want to look into the matter more deeply than that. Neither the real Captain Cardrew nor any of the crew of the Heron will be coming home to contradict the minutiae of the story. Lady Elspeth herself can be... vague about the people and places involved."

  "Excellent. Your scheme is better than mine, though you come out of it a less heroic figure."

  "Duncan, believe me, I am no hero."

  "And you are sure you want to let her go?"

  Thrown off balance, Roderick turned and stared at him. "I have... I have no choice."

  "Of course you have a choice. Have you bedded her?"

  The extreme bluntness of the question startled Roderick, and he could not shut his brother down with a denial in time. So he said nothing, and scowled at him.

  "You have!" Duncan seemed surprised at the success of his stab. "Then for God's sake, Roddie, give some thought to the notion that you might simply take her away with you."

  "To what? I cannot marry her."

  "Not here, I grant you, but the world is a big place. You of all people should know that. Take her to the New World, change your name, marry her there. Start a new life. A thousand pounds will go a long way towards that."

  "I—" For a moment, the vision was unbearably enticing. Elspeth, holding hands with him on a wild and distant shore, both of them stripped bare of the identities that burdened them; he no longer the laird turned wanted pirate, she no longer the daughter of a marquess. Then he took a hold of his senses. "No. I cannot do that to her. I cannot destroy her whole life."

  Duncan shrugged. "Perhaps not."

  "Besides, I made up my mind—many years ago—before I went away—that I would never marry. You must know what our father was, Duncan. I could not risk passing on that taint."

  Duncan said nothing to this, not even to acknowledge it. Perhaps even he could find no flippant rejoinder on such a subject, perhaps he was thinking about their father; the man who had been more like a malevolent force of nature in their boyhood, the ever-present threat of a devastating storm even on a sunny day. Roderick wanted to ask about their father's final days, but he was afraid of learning that he had died in some dreadful violent or squalid way.

  He had not even said goodbye to Duncan, he realised. It had all happened so fast, the night he found his mother's letter—written for him years before, but kept from him—confronted his father, and left Lochlannan Castle for good. It had been late at night and Duncan, he supposed, had been in bed asleep. He could not even call to mind a last memory of the little boy. Though he thought he could remember the last time he had seen his sister, a plump, pouting, fretful baby, sitting on her nursemaid's lap on a bench in the west lawn, her scowling little face frilled around by a lace cap.

  "Our sister is married?" he said, breaking the silence that had fallen.

  Duncan too seemed to be startled out of a reverie. "Yes, thank God. Not a fortnight past. She is off my hands, and another man's problem at last."

  But Roderick thought, from the faint smile that seemed to glow through his words, that he was fond of their sister for all that. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I left all of it upon you. Our fath
er's madness, responsibility for our sister, Lochlannan itself—it was my burden to bear. I confess, I never so much as thought about the fact that it would become yours."

  "Oh, don't worry yourself about that, dear brother. You assume that I take it seriously enough to care."

  This time Roderick could not be sure whether he meant it or not.

  They both looked round, sharply, at a soft knock upon the door of the cabin.

  Roderick was sufficiently on edge to draw his sword before cautiously opening the door, but as he had already expected and rather feared, it was only Elspeth without. She had, as he now remembered he had instructed her to do, dressed herself, and she was looking up at him with an anxious expression. As well she might, he thought grimly.

  He stood to one side to let her see who was within, and watched her beautiful eyes widen in surprise and some alarm.

  Duncan got smartly to his feet, and bowed. "Lady Elspeth. How delightful to meet with you again."

  Roderick hooked his hand under Elspeth's and steered her without ceremony back out of the cabin. "I want a word in private, your ladyship. Duncan—help yourself to Captain Cardrew's fine port. I won't be long."

  Elspeth said nothing as she let the Captain steer her the short distance from the great cabin back belowdeck to her own quarters. She could tell from the way he was gripping her elbow—she could tell, in fact, from his silence—that he was not happy with her. But he did not turn to confront her until he had closed the door behind them.

  "I read your letter," he said, and his voice was ominously quiet and calm.

  She was still quavering from the shock of seeing Sir Duncan, actually there in the familiar and incongruous surroundings of the Captain's cabin. She had been forcibly reminded of the circumstances of their last encounter, and it was consciousness of that which was making her uneasy now.

  "My... letter?" She was confused. She had written no letter to the Captain, certainly not one to be mentioned in softly significant tones.

  "Yes, the letter you wrote to my brother Duncan, after I had explicitly told you that I could not reveal my identity to anyone—especially to my family!"