The Pirate’s Redemption

by Casie, Ruth A.

  If only she could be a pirate’s wench forever.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gilmar, Scotland

  September 26, 1267

  Early morning

  Moira sat on the window seat in her chamber and peered out. She took in the bright colors squeezing through the clouds. Chilled, she pulled her shawl tight around her. The scent of rain hung in the air as she watched the sky lighten, the morning fully arrived. The mist thickened, and the unmistakable sound of thunder threatened in the distance. It didn’t take long for the rain to fall.

  She leaned her forehead against the stone wall. Gareth. For a few hours last night, she was simply a woman who craved some tenderness. Their banter was playful and harmless. They sang and danced around the fire. Perhaps she was foolish to let him kiss her, although she did kiss him back. The memory of his reactions gave her pleasure. She touched her lips and closed her eyes, his mouth felt so right on hers.

  Foolish, yes, but she had no regrets. She let out a deep breath and opened her eyes. It mustn’t happen again. She was the chieftain. Perhaps if she repeated it several times, she would believe it.

  She stood, stretched, then left her chamber for the great hall. Last night all the furniture had been pushed aside to make room for the celebration—but now the tables and benches had been moved back to where they belonged. She was grateful for whoever had thought to clean up.

  As Moira crossed the room to take her seat, she took a deep breath and went over her objective-bring honor to her father and her people, and protect her clan. The idea that Bridgeton was loose on the sea, wreaking havoc on other villages, was too much to bear. The power to defeat him and his English rabble was within reach. It was up to her to bring that knowledge to Laird Ewan. To do that, she needed to go to Dundhragon Castle.

  With Wesley’s help, she’d keep Gilmar safe. She couldn’t expect him to stay here much longer. It was time she left for Dundhragon.

  “Good morn, milady,” Wesley said. He and Gareth stood along with her councilors.

  Moira gazed into Gareth’s eyes, and her body warmed. He acknowledged her with a smile and slight nod.

  “Good morn.” She went to her chair. Once seated, the men followed suit. “I trust ye all slept well.”

  “Soundly, milady, thanks ta Laird Wesley and his ale,” Nigel said. “Tis a hard thing ta lay those ye love ta rest, especially under the threat of another attack. We owe Laird Wesley our gratitude for more than the ale. His men stood watch, and allowed us ta grieve and celebrate their lives, and helped restore what we could.”

  “Laird Wesley gave us more information about the attacks along the coast,” Aymer said.

  “I will take the message ta his lordship. Tis a hard journey, and the subject must be handled wi’ care,” Colban said as if the matter was decided.

  “Many thanks for yer generous offer, Colban, but ye needn’t be concerned. Tis no’ a hard journey, one day by sea. I’ve sailed there on my own many times.”

  “Moira, yer father would never forgive us if we let anything happen ta ye. Besides, yer place is here wi’ th’ clan, helping them recover from the attack,” Colban said.

  The warm mood of the morning had turned decidedly cold. She glanced at Wesley.

  “There is no’ need ta worry about my father’s forgiveness now, is there? Only mine. As Aymer reminded ye, and ye seem ta forget, I am chieftain. I will do all that is required of me, including speaking ta Laird Ewan.” Her voice was devoid of feelings.

  “I will go wi’ you,” Aymer said.

  “I know protocol says my bodyguard goes wherever I do, but these are difficult times. Ye are th’ only one who can defend th’ people if the English return. As much as I would like ye wi’ me, ye must stay here,” she said. “One of Wesley’s men volunteered ta go wi’ me.”

  The councilors were abuzz. Finally, Nigel got them to quiet down.

  “Ye are yer father’s daughter,” Nigel said as he sat back, a satisfied smile on his face. “Come, councilors. Moira is a fine chieftain, and knows what must be done.”

  “But, what if…” Colban began, getting to his feet along with the others.

  “If?” She liked the man less and less. “Ye think I will die or fail at my task?”

  “I doona think it will come ta that,” Nigel said, then turned to the other two. “We will tell th’ clan of our unwavering support of Moira’s journey to Laird Ewan.”

  When she glanced at Nigel, an approving smile played at the corners of his mouth. The three men left the great hall in deep conversation.

  “And ye, Wesley? Ye didn’t say anything.” She looked at Gareth; he, too, had remained quiet.

  “It was not my place to take sides. This was an important discussion. You needed to impress upon your councilors you are in charge. They left having no doubt you are their very capable leader.”

  “That remains ta be seen. They do have the ear of the elders, and many still view me as my father’s child. I’ll leave today, before my councilors gather support for their cause against me.” She rose from her chair.

  “I will go with you,” Gareth said.

  “You have my thanks. Meet me at the Pir. We’ll leave on the morning tide,” Moira said.

  “The Pir? I thought we would take the Sea Diamond.” She heard the irritation in Gareth’s voice.

  “Aye. She may not be the best-looking ship, but ye know she’s fast and sturdy,” she said.

  That was not the whole reason why they sailed on the Pir. If he was going with her, she should tell him about the cargo.

  “How long will we be gone?” Gareth asked.

  “I think a matter of days, a week at most.”

  “I see,” Wesley said rubbing his chin. “Laird Ewan is a military man who leads his men from his horse or his ship, not from his castle. What if he isn’t at Dundhragon, but rather on a campaign?”

  His concern was justified, but all was not lost. She had the answer.

  “Ye said he mourned th’ loss of his son-in-law. There is a good chance he is at th’ castle wi’ his daughter. If he isna there, then we will wait for him ta return.”

  “We?” Gareth asked.

  She turned to Gareth. “Us. Ye can still change yer mind. Either way, I sail as planned.”

  “I will go with you. The castle has been my destination all along. Once we’re there, my obligation to you is over,” Gareth said.

  His beautiful brown eyes were as stormy as the sea. She should be happy, but his eagerness to be done with her was painful. Did he have regrets? She didn’t. If last night was all she had, so be it. That meant that tomorrow may be their last day together.

  “Perhaps I can repay yer kindness, and assist ye in yer obligation.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted speaking.

  “No, Moira. You have your quest, and I mine. I will get you to the castle, then I will take my leave.”

  Not happy with his answer but unable to do anything about it, she nodded her agreement, and turned toward Wesley.

  “I, too, intend to uphold our agreement. But I cannot stay in Gilmar indefinitely. The three of us must agree how long we will wait.”

  Hands clutched behind her back, she stood by the window thinking. How to keep their support? An idea took hold.

  “Rather than decide on how long I should wait for Laird Ewan, I think the better question is how long ye think ye’re needed here. When ye’re finished, meet Gareth and me at Dundhragon,” she said.

  Gareth gave a warning cough. Wesley bent his head toward Gareth, who whispered something she couldn’t hear. Wesley straightened, and Gareth nodded, then left the room.

  “We agree. I will remain here and help with the recovery of the village. Gareth will accompany you on the Pir to Laird Ewan. I will meet you at the castle in two or three days.”

  “Then all that’s left is to say have a safe journey.” Moira walked out of the great hall and up the stairs. That meant two, maybe three days left with Gareth, it would never be enough.

/>   Chapter Thirteen

  Gilmar, Scotland

  September 26, 1267

  Later that morning

  Moira boarded the Pir with a small satchel. Behind her, the skeleton crew, Ross, Fergus, Angus, and three others brought four barrels and long wicker armament baskets aboard.

  “What is that foul odor?” Gareth waved his hand in front of his nose to ward off the smell. Before she could answer, he went down the gangplank to help with the last barrel.

  Three barrels were eased into place. The fourth slid from the man’s grip and fell the last foot to the deck. The lid popped off, releasing an even greater stench. A small splash of liquid landed on the boards.

  “Quick, git some sand. And weight down the lids,” Moira ordered.

  The crewman scooped up handfuls of sand and covered the smoking liquid.

  She had no right keeping the truth from Gareth, especially if he was sailing with her. Sailing. On water. On a fuse that could send them all to kingdom come.

  Gareth and the crew anchored the last barrel in place.

  “Raise the main,” Gareth ordered.

  The crew jumped into action.

  “Main sail made,” the mast crewman called out.

  Gareth turned about to check everything. “Cast off.”

  The men removed the stern and bow lines, then pushed off the dock.

  “Clear,” the bow crew responded.

  “Oars,” Gareth ordered.

  Crewmen below deck rowed the ship into the loch where they would catch the wind.

  She could feel the pull of the oars as the ship lumbered away from the dock into the current. It didn’t take long until the sail filled, and the Pir raced across the water.

  Barrels secured, she stood at the rail. In less than an hour, they passed Ellenabeich and sailed north.

  Dark clouds continued to gather, blotting out the sun. The wind gathered strength without any sign of letting up.

  She joined Gareth on the top deck.

  “Now that we’re underway, will you tell me what we carry? The stench is unbearable.” He didn’t look at her.

  She turned, curious to see what held his attention. The advancing storm, no doubt. The trip to the castle was not long, and with any luck, they would beat it.

  “The barrels contain a substance made of oil, sulfur, quicklime, and tow.”

  He glared at her, his eyes burning through her. He knew. She let out a breath and waited for his anger to explode.

  “Greek fire. You’ve stowed four barrels—”

  “Of a weapon no one else in the isles has,” she quickly added. “My father spent years perfecting th’ ingredients. He told me ta tell no one it existed and ta deliver it ta Laird Ewan should it be needed. There is no greater need than now.”

  “And the sand?”

  “It prevents the sticky mess from igniting. Water cannot put out the fire. Only sand or vinegar can stop it.”

  The clouds continued to darken. The wind pushed hard against the ship with gathering strength. The bow plowed through the swelling waves, sending the spray everywhere. Moira and Gareth studied the puddles on the deck below, concerned the water would reach and ignite the barrels.

  “Make for Kerrera,” he shouted above the noise.

  “We’re no’ going on?” she asked. “We’re no’ far from Dundhragon.”

  “No. Not in this storm. We can’t afford to take on any water,” Gareth said and turned toward Moira. “Let’s hope we can tie up tight, and not lose your precious cargo or our lives.”

  “I must bring th’ barrels ta Laird Ewan,” she shouted over the wind. “Can you imagine if Bridgeton took them? He would use it against us, against Laird Ewan.”

  He didn’t appear pacified. His eyes were stormier than the gathering clouds. She couldn’t worry about him now.

  “You should have told me what we carried before we left port. The crew had a right to know.”

  “Why do ye think I wanted ta go alone,” she shouted at him. “And if I told ye, what would ye have done?”

  “Not let you go.”

  “That was no’ for you, or Wesley, or anyone else to decide. The decision was mine, and I made it. If ye so concerned, once we’re in Kerrera, ye needn’t rejoin us.”

  “And how will you bring your precious cargo to Laird Ewan?”

  “Kerrera is MacDougall land, all are fine sailors. If I can’t find anyone to sail with me, I’ll go by meself. I’ve sailed th’ Pir before. If need be, I can do it again.”

  “I’ll deliver you to the castle, but once we’re there, you can take this ship and sail it to Hades for all I care.” He stalked off and stood by the helm, leaving her at the railing.

  The gale and rain swept across the deck. She kept her eyes on the growing puddles. He was right. She should have told him what she had planned, but the thought that he or Wesley would stop her was too great.

  “Milady, ye shouldn’t stand here,” Ross said.

  “But Gareth is…” She turned toward him.

  “He’ll be fine. Tis ye we’re worried about. I’ll take ye ta the cabin where ye will be safe.”

  The rain fell so hard, she couldn’t see in front of her. As she followed Ross, a wave caught the ship, and she stumbled. She grabbed the nearby barrel.

  The strain on the sail pulled the lines holding the sheet, making the mast hum. The ship lurched and slowed to a sluggish speed, the current taking it close to shore.

  “We’ll go aground if we don’t get away from the coast,” Gareth shouted.

  The crash of the waves against the boat mixed with the screech of rocks scraping the hull made Moira freeze. Another wave hit the craft, sending water over the rails. The barrel beneath her hand shifted and trembled. The deck quivered. The low rasping sound grew louder. They were going aground. She glanced at Gareth as the ship came to a sudden stop.

  Gareth leaned over the starboard railing, then hurried to the larboard side of the ship to examine the problem.

  “The starboard edge is caught on a shoal. The larboard side is free,” Gareth said.

  He pulled the rope from the ship’s winch until it was all played out. He tied the end around his waist.

  “Angus, come with me,” Gareth said.

  “What are ye doing?” Moira asked, panic in her voice.

  “I need to tip the boat to larboard and free it from the bottom. The channel is narrow. I’ll climb the rocks and loop the rope over one of the tall ones. Ross and Fergus will work the winch and tilt the ship. That, and the rising tide, should be enough to get us off the shoal.”

  “Aye,” was all she said over the blowing wind.

  Gareth stood on the railing and grabbed the ratlines, the ladder-like rope that supported the mast. He studied the top of the mast, judging its sway. The wind came in gusts and could slam him against the mast.

  The wind subsided, and he climbed up the rope ladder. Rain pummeled him.

  The wind filled his shirt, making it into a sail. He cursed under his breath for not removing it. With his arm laced between the ropes for support, he pulled the shirt loose from his breeches and pulled it over his head.

  A glance at the top of the mast encouraged him. He could still see it. But this climb was taking too much time. The longer the ship sat on the shoal, the deeper it mired into the sand.

  The closer he got to the top of the mast, the more he struggled against the wind.

  A few more steps, and he would be within reach of his goal. The wind again backed off. Now was the time to make his final move, but the fingers on his right hand froze, and pain shot up his arm. He couldn’t use the other hand, and if he let go, he would fall onto the deck or into the sea. Neither alternative appealed to him.

  He commanded his fingers to work as he grasped the mast. He waited but a heartbeat and crawled into the basket. Breathing heavily, he stood. As the wind beat him, he tied the rope to the mast.

  A wave, larger than the others, pounded the side of the ship, shifting it deeper into the shoal.
Worried about Moira, he looked down, but couldn’t see through the driving rain.

  Everything depended on him freeing the ship. The barrels of Greek fire could stand just so much before they burst. If this didn’t work, his last alternative was to abandon ship and explode the barrels. He hoped it didn’t come to that.

  He tested the rope one last time. Satisfied, he hurried back to the deck.

  “Angus, you and Moira make sure the barrels don’t move. Make sure the weights stay on the lids,” he said. “Ross, you and Fergus wait for my signal, then work the winch.”

  “Aye, captain,” Ross said.

  Gareth scrambled over the side and made his way to the rocks. For a moment, the gale subsided. Thankful for the respite, Gareth climbed the tall rock and looped the line over it.

  He slid down the slick rock and waved to Ross. The wind picked up again. Ross and Fergus made fast work of picking up the slack with the winch. They tightened the rope until Gareth thought it would snap. He made his way back to the ship.

  Drenched to the bone, Fergus helped him up the ladder by the open railing and onto the deck as another wave hit the ship. Gareth grabbed an ax, ready to free them from the rocks.

  He watched the mast. “Come on, move damn you,” he shouted.

  He glanced at Moira and didn’t like what he saw. He hurried over to the barrels. The ropes, stretched to their limit, were beginning to fray.

  Ross and Fergus squeezed another turn of the winch. Still no movement. The tactic was sound. Was the ship dug in too deep? He’d have to order them to abandon ship. He searched the rocks for the fastest way to get them off the ship and to some protection. He couldn’t let anyone find their cargo. With so much water about, there was no way he could keep the barrels from igniting.

  “It moved,” Moira shouted.

  Gareth looked up. She was right. “Come on, a little more,” he shouted to Ross and Fergus.

  The mast moved, slowly at first, then gathered momentum. The deck began to right itself until, with a graceful slide, it settled into the deeper water. Gareth swung the ax and cut the rope before the mast snapped.