The Pirate's Temptation (Pirates of Britannia World Book 12)

by Tara Kingston

  “You mean a bustle?”

  “Or a hoop. The girls’ mum wore one under her skirts before she came here to live. I’ve seldom seen anything more absurd than a lass trying to sit like a lady in one of those blasted things.” As Leana stepped onto the landing, he motioned her to his right. “Yer room’s down here. If ye have a problem with anything, be sure to let me know.”

  She followed his brisk steps, moving quickly to keep up as he led her down the corridor. He opened the fifth door down, set her bag inside, then moved out of her way.

  Leana stepped through the door. The room was modest in size, scrupulously clean, and boasted not one but two windows. Heaven! She flung open the cheerful yellow curtains and drank in the fresh, clean breeze blowing in the window.

  “This is lovely,” she said, turning to Rory. “I’ll be quite comfortable.”

  “Let me know if ye’re needin’ anything, and I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you,” she said as he turned and closed the door behind him.

  She scanned the room, taking it in. The furnishings were modest—a bed covered by a charming, hand-stitched quilt, a dresser chest, a small wardrobe, and a woven rug that had seen better days. But the room suited as well as a more lavishly appointed space. She’d be safe and comfortable in this house, and she’d no cause to bolt her door for fear of being interrupted by the man of the house. Which certainly had not been the case with her former employer, cad that he was.

  Plopping down on the edge of the bed, she sighed with relief. All in all, things had gone far better than they might have. Now, to secure her position here. Surely it would not be so difficult to win over MacArron’s daughters and convince the pirate to keep her on.

  She lay back on the patchwork coverlet, running her fingers over the soft cotton sewn into a starburst pattern. Someone had put a great deal of love and effort into the quilt.

  Had MacArron’s wife stitched the intricate design? His mother? Or was it merely the product of talented hands out to make a living?

  With a little sigh, she closed her eyes. She’d rest for a few moments then freshen up before the evening meal.

  A soft rap upon the door broke through her solitude. Mrs. Davidson called softly through the stout wood panel.

  “I wanted to check on you and see how you’re settling in,” the housekeeper said, brushing a gray curl off her cheek as Leana admitted her.

  “This is such a comfortable room,” Leana said. “Why, the floors are so clean, they shine.”

  Mrs. Davidson beamed. “I do pride myself on keeping this house up to snuff. As you can imagine, it’s a challenge. I thank the heavens the captain doesn’t use the entire castle for living space. The east wing is closed down, has been for decades. No one has used the space since his great-grandfather returned from showing Napoleon’s admirals what’s what.”

  “Captain MacArron’s ancestor was a naval officer?”

  “No, Seamus MacDougall wanted no part of the Royal Navy.” Mrs. Davidson’s face creased into a warm smile. “The man was far too bold for that.”

  “Then how…how did he best the admirals?”

  “Ah, the old man was a pirate. The fiercest of his time, or so they said. He took pleasure besting the French captains and seizing their cargos. As the story goes, an English admiral was so impressed by Captain MacDougall’s daring attacks, he secured a letter of marque for the man. As a privateer, Seamus MacDougall did what he’d done all along, but with the Crown’s blessing. After the war, he was knighted by the king, though he cared little about such an honor.”

  “Did you know the man?”

  A fine mist dampened the housekeeper’s gray eyes. “I was a young girl—only twelve or so—when Captain MacDougall and his bride moved into his ancestral home after the war. My da had been his head groundskeeper, my mum his housekeeper, just as I am for Captain MacArron. I still remember the sight of Seamus MacDougall, so tall and proud, with that wavy hair of his and those shiny black boots. I’ll admit, my heart went to pounding just a bit faster than it should’ve when I laid eyes on him. He was a handsome one, he was.”

  Just like his great-grandson.

  “What was it like, living with a pirate and his family?”

  “You’ll know the answer to that question soon enough,” the older woman said, nodding softly. “Captain MacDougall was a kind man, utterly devoted to his wife and his son. But sadly, he was not destined to find happiness here.” She sighed. “Well, then, I must be going. I’ll have your bath drawn whenever you’re ready.”

  “Why, Mrs. Davidson, surely you don’t expect me to wait for the rest of the story.” Leana smiled. “You must tell me what happened.”

  “Very well,” the matron said, nibbling her lower lip. “There was a wildness in Seamus MacDougall. He loved his wife—Beth was her name—but he seemed caged in here, and before long, he returned to the sea. One night during a spring storm, his ship was caught up in the pounding waves and ran aground, tearing the vessel in two. At first, some believed he’d died. When they carried the awful news to his wife, the poor dear was heartsick. She was heavy with their second child, you know, and in her grief, she collapsed and birthed the babe too soon. My father rode into town and brought back a midwife, but nothing could be done. The mother and babe were lost before the captain could return home.” Anguish uneased by the passage of time gave Mrs. Davidson’s voice a ragged edge. She sniffled, unable to choke back a tear.

  “How very sad,” Leana said.

  Mrs. Davidson swiped at the teardrop on her cheek. “As long as I live, I’ll never forget the misery in the captain’s voice when he learned the horrible news. I never heard such a sound again until many years later, on the night Captain MacArron returned home from a voyage. If he’d made it back a few hours earlier, he might’ve saved his wife.” Dabbing at her eye with a corner of her apron, she went to the door. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to say anything to distress you. I do not intend to drive you away.”

  “Drive me away?” Leana reached out, lightly pressing her fingers over the woman’s trembling hand. “Rest assured, you did not say anything to cause distress. It hurts my heart to think that you and this family have had to endure such sadness.”

  “Thank you, lass. I do not wish to frighten you, but I feel it’s my duty to tell you there’s talk…of a curse.” Excitement glimmered in the housekeeper’s eyes as she lowered her voice. “After Mrs. MacArron died…well, there are some who believe the castle itself is cursed. Heaven only knows what happened here over the centuries.”

  A little shiver brushed over Leana’s nape, even as she dismissed the notion as superstition. “Do you agree with them?”

  Mrs. Davidson shook her head. “I put little stock in tales spread by whispers. But I do have reason to suspect a ghost or two might hide away in the secret passages.”

  “Secret passages?” Leana repeated, unable to stop herself. My, this place was becoming more fascinating by the moment. Mrs. Davidson was turning out to be a fountain of information.

  “These castles were built to protect their occupants. They were also built to hide treasure and anything the Scots did not wish to fall into the hands of their enemies. If you look carefully, you’ll find any number of hidden spaces. But stay away if you do uncover one. I’m told they are treacherous, nearly impossible to navigate even with a lamp to guide you.”

  “You can be sure I will not go exploring.”

  “Please, do not tell the captain what I’ve said. He’s a fiercely private man.”

  “Rest assured our conversation will go no further than this chamber.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Davidson said as she took her leave.

  After the door closed behind the housekeeper, Leana went to the window and drew in a deep breath of fresh air tinged with a faint scent of salt from the coastal waters. A fresh chill danced over her skin.

  Turning from the window, she sat on the small wing chair in the corner. What had she gotten herself into?

  A sigh
escaped her as she closed her eyes. She was letting Mrs. Davidson’s dramatic tone get to her. Whatever she faced here—whether it was a phantom peeking through the wall, an ancient curse, or a madwoman in the attic, it was preferable to facing the very real, very much alive, and very angry man she’d left behind in the city. Curses and ghosts were minor considerations compared to the possibility Lord Gilford might track her down. He would not forgive what she’d done.

  If Lord Gilford found her, he’d see her dead. Of that, she had no doubt. She’d assaulted a blasted earl, of all things. No one would care that she’d acted only to defend herself. Who would take her word over his, a man whose title dated back to the reign of Queen Elizabeth? Even if they did believe her, who would care? She was a governess, a hired servant. She lightly touched her upper arms, feeling the tender spots where he’d dug in his fingers and squeezed. Terror had filled every cell in those moments, leaving her mindless and wild, frantic to survive. She’d done what she had to do to get away.

  Just as she’d do now.

  But if he found her here—would he dare to confront the Devil of the Highlands?

  Her eyes opened wide at the thought. James MacArron had no reason to put his neck on the line for her. He had no reason to defend her.

  But he would. As long as she was here, in his home, he would protect her. Honor would not permit him to do any less.

  She came to her feet and went to the dresser, poured water into the basin, and splashed it on her face. Tormenting herself with what-if served no purpose. If the danger did follow her, she’d face it.

  Just as she had that horrid day.

  She dabbed the water off her face with a soft, clean towel and opened her traveling case. Her fingers curved around the handle of the sghian dubh she’d hidden within the tangle of hurriedly packed garments. As she pulled the dagger from the bag, sunlight gleamed on the lethally sharp weapon and the emerald embedded in its handle. Though the blade was not long, well-placed, it could kill a man. Her heart sped slightly at the thought. By now, Lord Gilford had surely realized she’d taken the dagger. He’d seek to reclaim the ancient weapon. Its value must be considerable. She hadn’t taken it for its worth. It had merely been convenient, the first weapon she’d spotted after she’d bashed the high-and-mighty scoundrel over the head.

  Someday, once this was over and done and she was safe again, she’d see it returned to the earl’s family. She was no thief. She’d needed protection, not riches.

  And for now, she’d do whatever it took to survive.

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Davidson summoned Leana to supper as the sun was setting over the mountains to the west of the castle. As she entered the modest dining room, hand-in-hand with the wee lass, Bridget, Leana spotted the older of her new charges in the kitchen. With the cook looking on proudly, Isla brought out a plate of bread she’d baked as Leana and Bridget took their seats at the table.

  “Please, have a piece,” Isla urged. “You must be famished.”

  “Thank you,” Leana replied, taking slices of the fresh-baked loaf for Bridget and herself. Her first bite confirmed the bread tasted as good as it smelled.

  “Ah, ye’ve made oat bread again. I could smell it as soon as I came inside. Niece, do ye intend to feed me so well I bust the seams on my clothing?” Rory said with a ready smile. A pair of older, rough-and-tumble men flanked him, their gazes on Leana as they made their way to the table.

  “Uncle Rory, I dinna recall forcing you to eat it,” Isla said, grinning as he broke off a hunk and took a bite.

  “I canna resist,” he said. “Someday, lass, ye’re goin’ to make some fellow a good wife.”

  “Bah,” the young lass scoffed. “I’ve no intention of ever bein’ a bride. I’ve far too many things I want to do, places I want to see. Who knows—I might even join Da at sea.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in—” Rory caught sight of Mrs. Taylor’s scowl and stopped in the nick of time. As if to disguise his motives, he took another bite of bread before turning to Leana and introducing the men as members of his brother’s crew.

  The older of the pair, a man whose long, graying hair was well in need of a good trim, shook his head. Peter McKown’s unkempt strands draped his eyes like a curtain. Brushing the strands aside, he regarded her with a skeptical gaze.

  “Pleased to meet ye, lass. But are ye sure ye’re up to the task?”

  She squinted at him, trying to decipher his question. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He flashed a craggy grin. “Tryin’ to teach these lasses to be fine young ladies? Why, a soul who’s up to that challenge may not exist.”

  Isla’s smile transformed to a smirk, even as her eyes betrayed a flicker of pain at the man’s words. Leana squared her shoulders and pressed her palms to the table before her. These girls were not untamable hellions. The cruel comments needed to stop.

  She flashed Isla a speaking glance, then directed her attention to the gray-haired crewman.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. McKown,” Leana said in a warm tone. Deliberately, she hiked her chin and infused ice into her voice. “Though I must admit, I am taken aback by your words. These girls have suffered a great loss. They require a bit of guidance, nothing more.”

  The younger of the pair, a lean man with a neatly trimmed beard and a full head of curly red hair, scoffed under his breath. Pinning him with her gaze, Leana slowly rose to her feet.

  “Mr. Howell, do you care to elaborate? I see nothing humorous in my statement.”

  “I meant no harm. It’s only that—well, I’ve seen these young lasses send stout-hearted women runnin’ for the door. I do wish ye luck. I suspect ye’re goin’ to need it.”

  “From this moment forward, I will thank the both of you to keep your opinions regarding these girls to yourself.” She slanted Isla another glance. The girl’s eyes had gone wide as the hint of a smile played on her mouth. “Unless, of course, you would like to compliment Isla on her delicious bread. That would certainly be in order.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rory fold his arms at his waist. As he observed the situation, the faintest trace of amusement played on his mouth. That, at least, was a relief. If he’d taken offense at the way she’d issued a set-down to his associates, he did not show it.

  Mrs. Taylor shot him a pointed look. “My, my, Rory MacArron, I’d think you’d know better than to bring those two in here while the ladies are dining.” Her attention shifted to the older of the two. “And you, Mr. McKown…when’s the last time a barber touched a scissors to your hair?”

  The man named McKown shrugged, even as a light came to his eyes. “I canna say as I recall. Are ye volunteering for the job?”

  “Not on yer life, Mr. McKown,” the matron replied, her indignation a bit too pronounced to be genuine.

  “Never say never, Mrs. Taylor.”

  With a little huff, she turned on her heel and marched back to the kitchen. Isla motioned to her uncle to join them. “Dinna listen to her. Come and join us, all three of you. We’ve more than enough food.”

  “Thank ye, niece, but we’ve business with yer da. Our meals will have to wait ’til later.”

  “Da is not dinin’ with us tonight?” Isla’s young voice wavered slightly with disappointment.

  “Ah, I’m sorry t’be the bearer of bad news. But he willna be dinin’ with ye tonight.”

  Lower lip trembling, Isla watched as her uncle turned to the door. The quiver intensified as the trio made their way down the corridor, away from the dining room.

  Mrs. Taylor quietly entered the room and moved to the girl. “Isla, there’s no cause to make a scene. Yer da’s a busy man. Ye know that.”

  “Of course I do,” the girl said. “If he’d hadn’t gone away…if he’d have been home that night…our mum would still be alive.”

  In the quiet of his study, Jamie went to his desk, unlocked the top drawer, and took out a photograph of the woman he’d loved, the woman who’d asked him to leave
behind the life he’d known on the seas.

  For Siobhan, he’d willingly turned his back on the Highland Raiders, the league of mercenaries and privateers who’d raided the shipments of smugglers and thieves on behalf of whichever government was willing to pay them the richest bounty for their spoils. Eager to make his fortune, he’d joined his first crew at the age of seventeen. By twenty-three, he was made captain of the Highland Sorceress by its owner, John McKay, a Scottish aristocrat with more money than Carnegie and a taste for adventure. Under Jamie’s command, the privateer and its crew had carried out increasingly daring attacks on ships running the Union blockade off the Atlantic coast during America’s Civil War. Operating under the terms of a secret bargain with high-ranking officials in Washington, his crew raided dozens of ships carrying munitions and arms intended for the Confederates—the weaponry was turned over to the government, while the smuggled goods and treasure intended to aid the Rebels was the ship’s to keep. McKay grew wealthier with each raid, and wisely shared the bounty with his captain and crew. By the end of the war, Jamie had made a fortune and gained a name—Devil of the Highlands.

  Truth be told, he’d savored the name. The rush of adrenaline fueling every raid was a heady thing—even more thrilling than the riches they seized. After the war, Jamie and McKay turned to another privateering venture, this one even more lucrative. Pursing smugglers on behalf of the Crown, the Highland Raiders brought in bounty after bounty. Received with fanfare, Jamie and his crew were portrayed as bold heroes in the press.

  But in the eyes of the curs whose schemes they’d ruined, they were the enemy.

  An enemy that needed to be destroyed.

  And they’d damned near succeeded.

  Stretching out his legs, he studied the image. Siobhan had been a beauty. Her stormy blue eyes had flashed with emotion. At first, he’d seen passion in her gaze, until she grew weary of life with a man of the sea. The fire he’d adored had been replaced by a layer of frost she couldn’t hide.

  Damn it, tormenting himself served no purpose. He returned the portrait to the drawer and locked it. Leaning back, he stared aimlessly at the ceiling. His gaze wandered to the window. Beyond the horizon, the sun was low in the sky. He’d retreated to this room, seeking quiet to clear his head. So far, he was doing a damned poor job of it.