Pirates of the Angui (Cipher's Kiss Book 1): A Scottish Highlander Time Travel Romance

by Heather Walker

  She gave herself over into his arm, wanting him to feel how much she wanted him. She wanted him to take her, to lay her bare and scrutinize everything about her. The very fact that she didn’t feel any deep-seated loyalty made it okay. He was just a man, and she was just a woman.

  He laid his other hand on her hip, and his fingers crawled down her thigh to her knee. In a second, he would feel the straps holding her prosthesis in place. Then he would know, and she just didn’t give a stuff. She wanted him between her legs. She wanted to sit on his lap and ride his hard…

  At that moment, a loud banging knock pounded on her bedroom door. A shrill male voice cried out from the passage beyond, “Sir! Sir! Come quick! Major Kirk is calling for ye!”

  Malcolm jerked away, his eyes locked on Ree’s. “What is it?” he called out. “What’s amiss?”

  “They’re attacking, Sir!” the voice cried. “The Highlanders are attacking the garrison!”

  Chapter 17

  Ned braced himself as the Gunns rushed over the rolling landscape toward him. Every time they crested a rise, they got closer. In a moment, he distinguished individual faces. One of the men had been at the bookshop. Another was the fisherman who had returned him to Flotta. The man must have turned around, returned to Hoy, and gone straight to the authorities to report what he knew about Ned’s position. Ned didn’t recognize the other men.

  None of that mattered. They all carried both guns and swords. He didn’t stand a chance. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing only the hill behind him. If only he could see the ship plunge into the water and sail away, he would know he’d done his job. He could die in peace, but he didn’t even get that. He had to fight to his last breath and hope for the best. As long as none of these men crossed that hill and saw the Prometheus, he could die satisfied.

  He would die with Ree before his eyes. He knew that. He already saw her before him in her crisp pale gown and her hair swept up behind her head. The deep understanding in her eyes touched his heart.

  Ned heard their battle cry as the Gunns caught sight of him. They drew their weapons on the run and charged in to slaughter him. He couldn’t defeat seven men. The Gunns trained their fighters as well as the Lewises did, if not better. They trained little boys from the moment they could walk to battle immortals to the death. No one could defeat them—not in these numbers, at least.

  Ned’s heart sank into his boots. All hope he ever had about fighting his way out of this and rejoining his crew left him then. He took a wide stance and unsheathed his saber. He pulled his dirk from his belt with his left hand and roared at his enemies. He sprang into their midst, slashing and stabbing as fast as he could. All he had to do was call up the memory of his slain people. That thought gave him all the strength he needed to face them.

  In an instant, the Gunns surrounded him. Their blades flashed in the sun.

  Ned danced in a circle to meet them all at once. His hair whipped in his face and his kilt slapped his thighs, he turned so fast. He chopped his saber in a circle and collected three blades against his hand grip. He carried them with him in a smooth arc. The men attached to those weapons bunched together. He kicked the nearest man in the stomach and sent all of them sprawling away.

  He whirled around to face the other four, but he already knew he was done for. He drove them back with ferocious back and forth slashes of his weapon. The man on his left stabbed his saber point at Ned’s chest. Ned caught the weapon on his dirk and held it out of the way while he drove in with his saber. He impaled the man in the neck and whirled away to the next assailant.

  Nothing held him back from slaughtering these men without mercy. He avenged all the friends and family and loved ones he’d seen die over the centuries, their faces emblazoned on his consciousness all this time. As long as he’d had to stay alive on this filthy little planet, he’d had to remember every agonized death groan, every spasm of pain he could do nothing to alleviate. He could do something about it now, though. He would inflict as much pain and suffering on this cruel race as he could. Wives and mothers and cousins in Orkney would cry and wail in grief-stricken agony before he was done.

  Ned swung around in blood-fueled fury and landed a splintering chop against a man’s shoulder. His blade cleaved the man in half all the way to the breastbone before his saber stuck in solid bone. He didn’t bother to yank it free. He let go of his hand grip and snatched the man’s saber out of his limp hand, then ducked under a sideswipe from another man and fought him from behind with their friend’s own weapon.

  Murderous hate and blood lust filled his soul, and he gave himself over to the joy of killing. He would never see the Prometheus again, but Gilias would tell the men what he’d done. His fame would survive in the hearts of all the remaining Angui. They would tell and retell the story of how he had sacrificed himself to save them all.

  He decapitated another man. Only four remained, and he could take them. His spirits soared. He could do this. He could get away from these men and escape. He lunged at them with a broken roar, but he didn’t frighten these men. Each one presented a visage hardened by battle and conflict. They knew how to fight him, and they knew how to work together so he didn’t stand a chance.

  All at once, he caught a flash of movement out the corner of his eye. He glanced over and saw sails on the ocean to the east. A ship banked down the wind not half a mile off the island’s west coast. It was the Prometheus.

  While Ned watched, the ship nosed her prow toward the island. The wind washed off her sails, and they ruffled and popped slack for a moment. In a flash, the truth penetrated Ned’s mind. They were waiting for him. They got out of the inlet and sailed around the other side of the island. They could only be doing that for one reason. They were delaying their departure until they could pick him up.

  Ned almost burst out laughing for sheer joy and relief. He parried a few thrusts but no longer cared about killing these men. He cared for nothing but getting on board that ship and riding away with his friends.

  He measured the distance. He had to get across the fields with these fools in pursuit. Then he had an idea. He turned back and engaged the Gunns harder than ever. He got them worked into a sweat and drove them back. Then he lunged, launching himself at them, knocked their swords aside, and bolted. He spun on his heel and took off running at top speed over the fields. He vaulted over fences and scattered chickens in the farmyards on his headlong race for the beach.

  As he suspected, the Gunns chased him. They gave him barely enough lead time to keep ahead, but he couldn’t get back into a fight with them now. He blasted through the farms to the beach beyond, but the Prometheus was still too far out for him to reach her.

  His feet sank into the sand, but he didn’t stop running. He spotted Duncan on the deck, and Ned waved him toward the south. Duncan pointed, and Ned nodded on the run.

  Duncan called out to his shipmates. The ship banked, and her sails caught the wind once more. She plowed into the water and headed south, the way Ned had indicated. Once he saw that, he put on speed, and just in time.

  The Gunns hit the beach. They saw the ship, but they also saw Ned trapped. He had no way to get to the ship. If his friends put out a boat to pick him up, the Gunns would catch them too. Ned’s heartfelt sacrifice would mean nothing. He didn’t care. He burned down the beach on a headlong charge for freedom.

  Duncan made all kinds of unintelligible hand signals to him from the deck. Ned continued to wave him south. The foam churned under the prow, and she kept pace with him until he spotted his destination in the distance.

  His lungs ached and his knees wobbled from the effort, but he couldn’t quit now, not when he saw freedom in sight. He veered inland. The ship was going too fast now to stop. She was on her way toward Scotland, and she wouldn’t stop until she got there.

  Ned sheathed his weapon on the hoof. He wouldn’t be fighting anymore today, and he needed his hands free for what he had to do next. The Gunns saw their chance and fanned out to encircle him.
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br />   The island jutted into the ocean in another pointy headland. Ned charged over it. The ship had to go around it, but that worked in perfectly with his plans. He charged up a steep hill to the very top and blasted off the edge of the cliff.

  Too late, he saw the treacherous rocks below, cutting off his fall to the icy water. He flailed all his arms and legs, trying to hurl himself away from the cliff. Lady luck was on his side as he landed with a crash in the water just beyond the rocks.

  The black depths closed over his head. He kicked his arms and legs out. When his head broke the surface, he started swimming for all he was worth. The Gunns stood on the cliff high above him. They leaned on their knees to catch their breath, but none of them dared jump. They no longer had the momentum to carry them beyond the deadly rocks below.

  Ned paddled out into the open ocean. His kilt and his sword weighed him down, but he didn’t care. Every muscle strained to the utmost, and he feared he would drop from exhaustion before he accomplished his aim. He swam as far as he could before all the power in his arms and legs died. His chest hurt from gasping for every tortured breath. He couldn’t go on. He stopped in the middle of the channel, and the Gunns stood up to eye him.

  At that moment, the Prometheus rounded the headland coming straight for him. A shout went up from the deck, and the ship turned. She sailed between him and the island. Her massive wooden sides blocked his view of his pursuers.

  All sails dropped, and the ship stopped dead in front of him. Duncan leaned over the side and lowered a rope ladder. It dipped into the water, and Ned flung one limp arm over the lowest rung. He lacked the strength even to pull himself to safety.

  A man shouted, and the sails ran up. They luffed in the breeze, and the ship started forward. The ladder dragged Ned through the water, but he no longer cared. He felt consciousness slipping away, so he locked his arm around that rung and hung on for dear life.

  With the last of his awareness, he sensed himself being hauled out of the water. His spent body banged brutally against the hull, and then his friends were dragging him over the rail. He collapsed at their feet.

  Chapter 18

  Malcolm rocketed to his feet and rushed to yank the door open. “Who’s attacking?”

  “We dinnae ken, Sir,” came the squeaky reply. “We only ken they’re Highlanders. They breached the garrison wall and charged into the Infantry mess. They slaughtered fifty men before anyone could get to a weapon. They’re marauding through the halls and killing everyone they can find.”

  “That’s impossible,” Malcolm fired back, pushing the young man ahead of him, down the hall. “Highlanders wouldn’t attack a fully armed British garrison in the middle of the city. What tartan are they wearing?”

  The men’s voices disappeared down the passage.

  Ree got to her feet. It couldn’t be Ned’s men attacking. He was nowhere near the country. Still, this chaos offered her the best chance to escape. She pulled her saber from under the mattress and threw her shawl around her shoulders. She would need that if she got out of this city with nothing but the clothes on her back and a sword in her hand.

  God, what was becoming of her? She dared not think about it.

  She hurried out of the room. British soldiers charged back and forth, the din of their excited chattering filling the hallway. She couldn’t make out what they were talking about.

  “They’re McDonald,” one soldier murmured to another. “I saw their tartans. They say they’re here to take revenge for the massacre at Glencoe.”

  “That was fifty years ago,” his friend fired back. “Why would they be attacking here now?”

  The first soldier shot a wry grin at his comrade. “It’s Scotland.”

  Ree hid behind the doorframe until they passed. Wherever they were going, she had to go the opposite direction. She would get as far away from any fighting as she could and slip away in the confusion.

  Most of the soldiers headed to the north end of the garrison. When they passed her by, she slipped from the room and raced down the passage. She plastered her back against the wall and listened at Major Kirk’s office door. When she didn’t hear any conversation inside, she darted past the door and bolted toward the exit.

  None of the soldiers flooding the garrison paid any attention to her. She made her way to the door leading outside. With any luck, Malcolm’s spies would get lost in the scuffle too. They would be too busy fighting the McDonalds to notice she was gone until it was too late.

  The closer she got to the outer door, the louder the noise got. Something was going on right outside. She might find it more difficult than she anticipated to get free.

  She pulled open the door. At the same instant, an enormous kilted Highlander came hurtling toward her. The man’s mouth yawned open in a tremendous roar as he raised his saber on high to cleave her in half. His long hair, his full beard, and his kilt all whipped sideways with the sheer force of his momentum. Hundreds of men were fighting outside the door. Dust and smoke hung in clouds, and agonized screams mixed with feral bellows and shouted orders.

  Ree yanked the door shut in a flash, and the man collided with it. The force of the impact shook the garrison to its foundations. She staggered away and bumped into a host of Redcoats moving in behind her. She jumped out of the way and flattened herself against the wall. The soldiers amassed in front of the door.

  One smooth-faced young officer faced his troops. “Right, men. This is it. Stand ready to meet the worst as soon as we get the door open. Ready?”

  Everyone nodded, but no one said a word. They all stared at their officer with wide eyes, and whitened knuckles gripping their muskets, ready to fire.

  The officer braced his shoulders and pulled open the door. The soldiers charged into the open and left the door standing open.

  Ree’s guts twisted in knots. She didn’t want to go out there, but this was still her best chance to get away. She just had to take her chances that none of the attackers really wanted to kill a defenseless woman.

  Defenseless! How could she even think of herself in those words? She had a sword, didn’t she? Well, now was her chance to use it. She didn’t really know how to use it, but there was no time like the present to learn.

  She unwrapped the weapon from her shawl and held it out in front of her, then took a deep breath and ran through the door. She got twenty paces into the open before the murky confusion made her stop. She couldn’t see much through the smoke and dust. The air stank of gunpowder. Men fought men all around her. A flash of red here, a hint of plaid there—she couldn’t make head or tail of who was who or which side anybody was on. It was every man for himself.

  On her right, a tall Highlander ran his saber through a Redcoat’s chest. The soldier let out a sickening groan. The Highlander planted his foot against the man’s chest and kicked him away. The soldier collapsed onto his knees before falling on his face.

  Ree shook herself out of her shock and started moving through the battle, but the horrors surrounding her robbed her of any ability to think. She staggered from one atrocity to the next. Men fell all around her. Blood and guts and brains saturated the ground. Gore spattered the combatants’ hair and clothes and turned them into hideous fiends from Hell.

  She stumbled this way and that with no idea where she was going until she found herself in a street, and when she squinted through the gun smoke, she recognized a sign. R.F. Gillis, Printer. Now she knew where she was. She turned into a street she knew would take her out of town. How far could she really get before Malcolm realized she was gone?

  The smoke and noise started to clear when two Highland men burst out of the fog almost on top of her. Instead of fighting the Redcoats, these two fought each other. To Ree’s further astonishment, they both wore the same tartan. She pressed against a building as one of them charged in under the other’s arm and wrestled him back against a lamppost.

  What was going on that Scot battled Scot in the streets of Aberdeen? What in the name of God could have happened to turn
two men of the same Clan against each other?

  Ree tried to get away from them when her worst nightmare materialized before her eyes. One of the men broke out of their tussle and spun around to turn his weapon on her. At first her mind wouldn’t comprehend what was happening. The other man jumped in front of his adversary and blocked the attacker’s stroke. Sparks erupted off their blades. The attacker shoved his opponent away and launched himself at Ree one more time.

  This time, she reacted on pure adrenaline. She raised her saber and caught his weapon with her own. His blade skidded down her saber and clashed against the hand grip. Her arm shivered from the effort of holding him off, and her knees threatened to buckle from overpowering terror.

  The other man charged again. He thrust his weapon at the attacker, but the big Highlander only kicked the man away. The man fell. He smacked his head on the paving stones and didn’t rise again. Now it was the tall Highlander against Ree. No one would swoop in to save her now. She had a blade with which to save her life—nothing more. Staying alive came down to her summoning the strength to fight off a man twice her size. How could she manage that when she possessed no combat skills at all?

  Then her quaking fear changed to foaming rage. How dare this man attack her in the street? What did she ever do to him? She refused to give him the satisfaction of killing her.

  She didn’t try to overpower him. That would be futile. Besides, he vented all his massive strength at holding her saber locked against his own. All she had to do was give in, and his momentum sent him reeling forward. Ree dodged out of the way.

  At the same instant, she pulled her saber free from his grip, twirled around, and wielded her saber around in an arc cutting down toward his neck. She craved the sensation of her blade crunching into his spine and the stomach-turning death groan that accompanied it. At the last second, instead of hitting his fragile neck, her saber rang out against steel. Comprehension failing her again, she stared down at another saber blocking her stroke. How could this happen? What had gone wrong?