The Dark Heart of the Sea: A Steamy Fated Lovers Pirate Romance (Pirate of the Isles Book 2)

by Celeste Barclay

  The Dark Heart of the Sea

  Pirates of the Isles Book Two

  Celeste Barclay

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  The Dark Heart of the Sea Copyright © 2020 by Celeste Barclay. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Lisa Messegee, The Write Designer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Celeste Barclay

  Visit my website at www.celestebarclay.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: May 2020

  Celeste Barclay

  Kindle Digital Edition

  Behind every strong man is a great woman.

  To all those women who are a source of strength and support to their partner, you make both of you better people.

  Happy reading, y'all,

  Celeste

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading The Dark Heart of the Sea

  Chat with the hunky heroes from Celeste Barclay’s steamy romances

  The Highland Ladies

  The Clan Sinclair

  Viking Glory

  Chapter One

  Ruairí MacNeil opened the door to the Three Merry Lads and tried not to curl his nose in disgust. The overpowering odor of too many bodies, stale beers, and burned food created a cloud of stench inside the tavern. Ruairí scanned the crowd as he stepped inside and immediately noticed that many members of his crew were already settled, a pint in one hand and a woman in the other. His ship, the Lady Charity, had docked an hour earlier. With their most recent bounty already stored in the nearby cave, Ruairí had granted them shore leave. He nodded his head once to his first mate, Kyle, who was the only sober one in the lot. Ruairí made another visual sweep of the room, checking whether there were any other sailors who might be less enthused to see him come ashore. When he was satisfied none of his rivals were waiting to stab him, he attempted to make his way to the bar. As he pushed through the standing-room-only main room, he noticed a tavern wench attempting to carry a tray of empty mugs to the bar. She was a sturdy sort, but short when compared to the mountainous Highlanders and Hebrideans who made up the patrons of the Lads. Ruairí couldn’t help but smile as she tried to twist and shoulder her way past men who blocked her on purpose to give themselves more time to ogle her body.

  It was rare that Ruairí felt mercy, sympathy, or compassion for anyone, let alone a woman, but there was an odd twinge in his heart as he watched her try to maintain her smile as she became more frustrated. The woman swatted away a hand that dared come too close to her modest neckline. That observation caused Ruairí to quirk a brow and inspect the woman. She had on a clean white blouse–a rarity in this tavern–and it fit loosely over her entire bust. It left much to the imagination, and Ruairí found his was alive and well. Her skirts reached her ankles instead of hiked up on either side like the other women who worked in the tavern. From what Ruairí could tell, she looked more like a farmer’s wife than a tavern wench. She didn’t fit in.

  Ruairí’s sense of compassion grew alongside his annoyance at not being able to make his way to the bar. He began to elbow men around him, and the crowd parted. Between his size and reputation, Ruairí MacNeil was a hard man to ignore. He grasped the top of the woman’s hips and propelled her forward. She attempted to look over her shoulder, but she couldn’t make out the man who was either her captor or her protector. When they made it to the bar, the woman set her tray down and spun around.

  Senga MacLeod couldn’t believe the man who stood before her was real. He was more Adonis than man. Her eyes swept over his sun-bleached blond hair, taking in his broad shoulders, the ring in his ear, and the cornflower-blue eyes. He wasn’t the largest man she’d ever seen; after all, she lived near the Highlands. But he was somehow the most imposing, which made him the most impressive. There was a smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth as he watched her assess him.

  “Am I not what you expected, lass?” The deep timber felt as though it vibrated through every fiber of Senga’s body, wrapping around her like a warm woolen plaid on an icy winter morning. “Or am I just what you hoped for?”

  His second question snapped Senga out of her glazed stare. She frowned as she appraised him. “You’re exactly what I expected, and far less than I could hope for.” She exchanged the dirty mugs on her tray for full ones.

  “How could you’ve known what to expect when you couldn’t see me?” Ruairí asked, amused.

  “A man who assumes he can put his hands on me and do as he wants with me? Shockingly unexpected. An arrogant pirate with an earring, even more surprising.” Senga once again turned away.

  “You seem to know me so well, lass, but you’re an enigma to me.”

  “An enigma? A pirate who can do more than curse. You are full of surprises.”

  “And you’re as prickly as a thistle, but then, they’re among the most beautiful flowers.”

  Senga turned to stand facing Ruairí once again. “If I’m prickly, it’s because I’ve learned to take everything men say here with a barrel of salt,” she huffed out. “But I can at least be gracious enough to say thank you for helping me through the crowd. I wasn’t making any progress on my own.”

  Senga lifted her tray and dove back into the crowd as Ruairí watched her waist-length black braid swish close to her backside. He couldn’t help it when his eyes were drawn to her trim waist, broad hips, and ample bottom. He’d already noticed her eyes were a deep shade of brown shot through with light green lightning strikes. It made her eyes luminescent, and he suspected they’d change color with her mood. A consuming desire to discover what hue they became when locked in
the throes of passion heated his bollocks.

  Ruairí watched her throughout the evening as she wove her way through the crowd, avoiding clawing hands that tried to roam over her or attempted to pull her onto the lap of a drunkard. Each time he was ready to stand and come to her defense, but she’d pull a drying linen from the waist of her apron and snap it across those daring hands. All the while, Senga served the men with a smile plastered to her face, but even from a distance, Ruairí could see the strain around her eyes and how her smile stretched her cheeks taut. He admired her calm and patience, but his blood boiled as he watched patrons manhandle her. He couldn’t understand where these feelings of sympathy and possessiveness came from. When he initially approached her, he found her form appealing. When she faced him, he was interested, and when they matched wits, he was intrigued. It had been a long time since any woman intrigued him past what she could do in bed or against a wall. He found he wanted her to come back so they could talk again, but she never did.

  Senga felt overheated and could feel her shirt sticking to her back. Her backside was sore from an overly firm slap. She forced herself to continue smiling, but her cheeks ached along with her head. Senga never acclimated to the noise and smells of the tavern, and she left every night with a sharp headache. She was relieved when her uncle sent her to get two pails of fresh water from the well. Senga moved into the kitchen and grabbed the buckets before making her way to the side door. She sensed the pirate’s attention all night, but he didn’t seem as lecherous as the other men. Instead, he seemed almost protective, which she found puzzling. She chortled to herself as she thought about their brief exchange. He’d frightened her when she first felt his hands grip her waist, but his touch had been gentle even as his stride was determined. It was the first time since she began working at the tavern that she could make it to her destination without being stopped or pawed, and the men had made no lewd comments. She had to admit she appreciated it, but the man’s attractiveness had stunned her too much to remember her manners. Then he spoke. His arrogance raised her hackles even though she could tell his comments were made in jest. She couldn’t keep her eyes from shifting back to watch him as she worked the thirsty and rowdy crowd.

  The fresh air was a balm to her sweaty skin. She gulped a breath of unfettered air as she flushed the tavern funk from her airways. She looked to the well and picked her way along the uneven path.

  Ruairí watched Senga walk out the back door of the tavern. He scanned the crowd as his senses fired. These were the same instincts that kept him alive throughout his years of sailing and pirating. He watched three men elbow one another before they made for the side door. Ruairí was on his feet, but the tavern was even busier than when he arrived, and not as many people were willing to clear a path for him. Some didn’t care; others had nowhere to move. He walked past his crew’s table but shook his head when several slammed their mugs on the table and began to stand. Ruairí made his way through the crowd, even throwing two punches when a man had the audacity to smirk. He barreled through the door just in time to see Senga pressed against the wall of a nearby building. She swung an empty bucket against the ribs of one of her assailants as she tried to knee another, but her skirts kept her from connecting. Her other hand scratched at anything it could reach as she headbutted the man in front of her. She was quick to duck when a fist came at her, forcing it to smash into the brick where her head had been only a moment ago. A hand attempted to go over her mouth, but she snapped her teeth onto the fingers coming toward her. The man howled and wrapped his hand around her throat.

  Ruairí catapulted himself across the open space and launched himself at the men. His shoulder collided with the first man, and the momentum knocked the other two over. Ruairí was swinging his fists before he was on his knees.

  “Run!” he called out to Senga. He heard her scramble away as he rained down several more blows before rising to his feet.

  “Do you know who I am?” His voice was soft and menacing as he glared at the men still on the ground. “I am Ruairí MacNeil,” he bellowed.

  Senga paused when she heard the name of one of the most feared pirates to sail the Hebrides. He and his cousin, Rowan MacNeil, were infamous for their bravery and their cruelty. She tucked herself behind the corner of a building and leaned around to watch. She was in awe as she watched the men scramble backwards on their hands and backsides as they tried to get away. Clearly, they recognized the name too.

  Ruairí took one step forward and placed his hands on his hips as he bent over them. “Don’t touch women who aren’t willing. There are plenty of whores inside to keep you going for a month of Sundays. You don’t need to force the only one who clearly isn’t a whore.”

  “But Captain, that’s what makes her even more appealing. She isn’t used up like the others, and she taunts us with her smile and hints of a body made for sin. It’s not our fault.”

  Ruairí roared as he lifted the man by the collar of his shirt and shook him like a rag doll before tossing him aside. “Consider her under my protection. Do. Not. Touch. Her.” He punctuated each word with a hiss.

  Ruairí watched as the men stumbled away from him and from the tavern. He hoped they’d learned their lesson, at least for that night. There wasn’t much he could do once he sailed out of port, but he could save her this evening. He turned back to the tavern, but he knew he wouldn’t make it all the way back without stopping.

  Senga tried to sink back into the shadows of the building as Ruairí walked toward her. He’d told her to run, and she had, but she knew he meant back to the tavern. His manner of fighting didn’t give rise to fear; rather, his ferocity eased the terror she experienced while the men attacked her. However, now a bone-deep sense of trepidation came over her as Ruairí prowled toward her.

  “Come out, lass. I know you’re hiding.”

  Chapter Two

  Senga took a deep breath before squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. She stepped out of the shadows and rushed into a wall, one that happened to be broad and made of muscle. Ruairí’s hands shot out to catch her as she stumbled backwards, but he pulled a little too hard, and she tilted back toward him. They stood there, with Senga’s cheek against Ruairí’s chest and his arms wrapped around her. Neither of them moved as they took in what was happening. Senga could hear Ruairí’s steady but rapid heartbeat, and it soothed her in a way she hadn’t been calmed in many years. Ruairí held her, and for once wanted to console rather than seduce. Senga’s hands crept to his waist, where she held onto his billowing leine before easing her arms around to hold him too. He kissed the top of her head, and she was sure she’d dissolve right where they stood.

  “You were supposed to go back to the tavern. Believe it or not, you’d be safer there. Why didn’t you listen?”

  “I was going back, but then I heard your name, and well, I--” Senga stammered and squeezed her eyes shut, chiding herself for sounding addlepated.

  “And what did you think when you heard my name? Did it freeze you and frighten you into hiding? Is that why you’re still out here?”

  “No. It made me curious. I never would have thought you the type to rescue a damsel in distress.”

  “No, I wouldn’t say I am. Admittedly, I haven’t met many damsels in distress, but I had a sick feeling when I saw those arses pass through the same door I’d seen you use.”

  “I count my blessings you were watching me. It might have embarrassed me earlier, but it saved me.”

  Ruairí kissed the top of her head again as he stroked her hair. He couldn’t remember ever being so gentle with a woman; the last time he’d been so tender was when he cared for his younger sisters. That was half a score of years ago. There was something about this woman that brought out every protective spark within him, even though her attempts to defend herself impressed him.

  “You fought valiantly, and had there only been one or maybe two, you would’ve gotten away,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps.”

  They stood in s
ilence for a long time before Senga pulled back and looked up at Ruairí. His face was cast in the moonlight, and she reached up to caress his angular jaw. “Thank you, Ruairí,” she whispered and pulled away.

  Ruairí caught her hand before she stepped around him. “You know my name, but I haven’t a clue about yours. I never heard it inside.”

  “Senga. Senga MacLeod.”

  Ruairí couldn’t hide his shock, and his face revealed it because Senga laughed as she darted back to the tavern. “Which ones?” he called after her.

  She paused at the door before calling back, “Lewis.”

  She ducked inside, and Ruairí stood there shaking his head. Of course, the woman who mesmerized him would have to be from not only a neighboring clan, but from the rivals to his own clan. Ruairí grew up on the isle of Barra, where men and women were born to the sea. Their Viking heritage showed both in their looks and in their innate ability to sail. Ruairí grew up sailing with his father as they traded along the coast, and he was captaining a boat by the time he was four and ten. He was tall and strong for his age, so none of his clansmen questioned his ability to sail, and he was a natural leader. His neighbors, the MacLeods of Lewis, were as renowned for sailing as the MacNeils of Barra. They were rival merchants and, at times, raiders.