Stolen by Starlight
A Pirates of Britannia World Novel
Avril Borthiry
About the Book
A feisty wench is not the kind of booty Irish pirate Captain Jake McNamara expects to find in the hold of a plundered French merchant ship. At first, he resents Amy DuBois’ presence, but soon comes to realize that there is more to this beautiful and mysterious lass than meets his eye. As a hostage, it seems she might have some actual value, no different to any other kind of plunder.
Trouble is, Jake’s heart begins to see Amy’s real worth, a complication he would rather do without and struggles to resist. Will he go through with the ransom demand and give the lass back to an unscrupulous man? Or will he realize what kind of treasure he has found, and do all he can to keep it?
Stolen By Starlight is a romantic and fun pirate tale that will entertain you from the first page to the last!
Copyright
Text copyright by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Pirates of Britannia Connected World publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by DragonMedia Publishing, Inc. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Pirates of Britannia connected series by Kathryn Le Veque and Eliza Knight remain exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque and/or Eliza Knight, or their affiliates or licensors.
All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.
STOLEN BY STARLIGHT © 2018 Avril Borthiry. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.
STOLEN BY STARLIGHT is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Kim Killion @ The Killion Group, Inc.
Edited by Nina Marshall
Published by DragonMedia, Inc.
PO Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
Contents
Legend of the Pirates of Britannia
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Avril Borthiry
Excerpt from THE SEA DEVIL
Excerpt from SEA WOLFE
Excerpt from THE SEAFARING ROGUE
Legend of the Pirates of Britannia
In the year of our Lord 854, a wee lad by the name of Arthur MacAlpin set out on an adventure that would turn the tides of his fortune, for what could be more exciting than being feared and showered with gold?
Arthur wanted to be king. A sovereign as great as King Arthur, who came hundreds of years before him. The legendary knight who was able to pull a magical sword from stone, met ladies in lakes and vanquished evil with a vast following who worshipped him. But while that King Arthur brought to mind dreamlike images of a roundtable surrounded by chivalrous knights and the ladies they romanced, MacAlpin wanted to summon night terrors from every babe, woman and man.
Aye, MacAlpin, king of the pirates of Britannia would be a name most feared. A name that crossed children’s lips when the candles were blown out at night. When a shadow passed over a wall, was it the pirate king? When a ship sailed into port in the dark hours of night, was it him?
As the fourth son of the conquering Pictish King Cináed, Arthur wanted to prove himself to his father. He wanted to make his father proud, and show him that he, too, could be a conqueror. King Cináed was praised widely for having run off the Vikings, for saving his people, for amassing a vast and strong army. No one would dare encroach on his conquered lands when they would have to face the end of his blade.
Arthur wanted that, too. He wanted to be feared. Awed. To hold his sword up and have devils come flying from the tip.
So, it was on a fateful summer night in 854 that, at the age of ten and nine, Arthur amassed a crew of young and roguish Picts and stealthily commandeered one of his father’s ships. They blackened the sails to hide them from those on watch and began an adventure that would last a lifetime and beyond.
The lads trolled the seas, boarding ships and sacking small coastal villages. In fact, they even sailed so far north as to raid a Viking village in the name of his father. By the time they returned to Oban, and the seat of King Cináed, all of Scotland was raging about Arthur’s atrocities. Confused, he tried to explain, but his father would not listen and would not allow him back into the castle.
King Cináed banished his youngest son from the land, condemned his acts as evil and told him he never wanted to see him again.
Enraged and experiencing an underlying layer of mortification, Arthur took to the seas, gathering men as he went, and building a family he could trust that would not shun him. They ravaged the sea as well as the land—using his clan’s name as a lasting insult to his father for turning him out.
The legendary Pirate King was rumored to be merciless, the type of vengeful pirate who would drown a babe in his mother’s own milk if she didn’t give him the pearls at her neck. But with most rumors, they were mostly steeped in falsehoods meant to intimidate. In fact, there may have been a wee boy or two he saved from an untimely fate. Whenever they came across a lad or lass in need, as Arthur himself had once been, they took them into the fold.
One ship became two. And then three, four, five, until a score of ships with blackened sails roamed the seas.
These were his warriors. A legion of men who adored him, respected him, followed him, and, together, they wreaked havoc on the blood ties that had sent him away. And generations upon generations, country upon country, they would spread far and wide until people feared them from horizon to horizon. Every pirate king to follow would be named MacAlpin, so his father’s banishment would never be forgotten.
Forever lords of the sea. A daring brotherhood, where honor among thieves reigns supreme, and crushing their enemies is a thrilling pastime.
These are the pirates of Britannia, and here are their stories….
"Damn you villains, who are you? And from whence came you?"
Edward Teach
(Blackbeard)
c. 1680 – 22 November 1718
Chapter One
Dún na Séad Harbor,
Roaring Water Bay
Sunday, 14th July, 1720
The Vagabond Queen stole out of Roaring Water Bay at day’s end. Like a ghost ship, she moved in unlit silence over the waves, slinking past the islands of Sherkin and Cape Clear before slowing to a near halt as she approached open water. Once there, she dawdled a while on her barnacled keel till the north star twinkled in the night sky. Only then were her black sails trimmed to tease her onward.
Not that the ship’s master, Captain Jacob McNamara, sometimes called Dead-Eye Jake by those who told tales of him, needed directional help from a star. It was merely a custom he adhered to on clear nights; a respectful nod to his ancestors, who had relied on the heavens to guide them. Of course, providing the seas were calm enough, the Vagabond Queen prowled the
waves on many a cloudy night, too. A necessity, since the skies over the Britannic islands were oft more cloud-ridden than clear.
Jake stood at the helm and filled his lungs with the salt air that never failed to intoxicate his blood. It’s a fine night for marauding, he told himself, and then frowned. A mild sense of trepidation had escorted him on board that evening, and it plagued him yet.
But was it instinct or mere over-indulgence that fermented in his belly? He pondered. Earlier that day, he’d lunched on mutton stew and thrown back a measure or two of Ireland’s best whiskey at the aptly named Smuggler’s Lair Inn. But he’d kept his head clear, never losing sight of what mattered most to a sailor on his last day in port. His eager rudder had twice steered the lovely Kiandra O’Donnell into paradise that afternoon, after which he'd napped a while, a willing captive, shackled by the wench’s supple, naked limbs. All in all, it had been a satisfactory day.
So why this odd taste of foreboding?
The sails snapped as they billowed, and the deck shuddered beneath his feet as the Vagabond Queen lifted her oaken skirts to skip over the starlit waves. Jake adjusted an impromptu arousal brought about by thoughts of Miss O’Donnell and proceeded to survey his nocturnal domain. It had no visible borders or territorial lines, though respect was usually given to the haunts of other allied pirate factions. Guided by a fine French compass that he’d acquired from a fine French ship, he pointed the Queen’s naked figurehead to the east and wondered what kind of plunder, if any, awaited them.
“’Tis a grand night, Cap’n.”
“Aye, that it is.” Jake cast a brief glance at his helmsman. Theodore Stiles’ pock-marked face was lifted to the heavens as if he sought to navigate the stars that had not long since emerged. Or maybe he was praying. He was a clergyman, after all. Unfortunately, following a dose of smallpox, the man had been left with a visage ugly enough to stop the tide. He soon discovered that none but a few good Christians could gaze upon him without showing their revulsion and fear. The aberration had stumped all his efforts to find a permanent situation as a minister of the faith.
Not one to sit on his haunches when a vulnerable soul was in need, the Devil himself had steered the maligned holy man onto a different path. Theodore Stiles, priest, had exchanged his dog-collar for a cutlass, and become Padre Stiles, pirate.
While not an overly religious man, Jake nevertheless found an odd comfort in having a priest—albeit a fallen one—on board.
“She’s all yours, Padre,” Jake said, handing off the helm. “Hold her course east, toward Lundy. See if there’s anything worth having.”
“No prey, no pay,” Padre replied.
“Aye.” Jake grimaced. “Just keep your eyes skinned. Got a feeling about tonight.”
“Good or bad?”
“Not quite sure.”
Padre sniffed. “Bad, then, or ye’d not question it.”
Jake smiled his response and descended to his quarters to mull over his logs and accounts. These were lucrative times for pirates, thanks to Britain’s notable prosperity. The Colonial Empire continued to grow, and with it, opportunities to dip into the endless treasure-chests of ships that navigated the seas.
Jake did not consider himself a thief. He reserved such an epithet for back street dippers and pickpockets who risked dancing the hempen jig for the sake of a few paltry pennies. Jake was a gentleman of fortune, an adventurer who sought out opportunities and seized upon them. Descended from a long line of ships’ captains – some less reputable than others – he had the sea in his blood.
At the apex of night, a knock came to his door.
“Come.”
“Lights ahoy, Cap’n,” Fingal, his first mate, said. “Looks like a brig. Bristol bound is my guess. About a three-quarter mile off starboard.”
Jake felt the familiar tingle on his scalp. “All hands hoay,” he said, pushing back his chair and snuffing out his lantern. “Usual routine. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
On deck, verbal bets were already being placed on the target ship’s registry.
“Dutch, I reckon.”
“Nah. Spanish.”
“A Frenchie,” Fingal muttered, squinting at the distant black shape, pin-pricks of lanternlight betraying her presence. “Without a doubt.”
Jake glanced at him. “How can you be so sure?” The demand brought a reciprocal mumble from the crew.
Fingal tapped the side of his nose. “Garlic.” He grinned. “Can ye not smell it?”
Guffaws of laughter rang across the deck.
“All right, lads, you know what to do,” Jake said, as the noise died down. “We run silent and dark. No banner till we’re within range and she’s identifiable. If she’s British, and especially if she’s Navy, hoist the King’s Colors, and I’ll steer us clear. If she’s a viable target, hoist the black flag and be ready to fire a round of grapeshot into the rigging. If she’s French, we each owe Fingal a shilling.”
More laughter rippled through the crew, followed by absolute silence. Jake took his place at the helm, nodding a silent thanks to Padre.
“How’s the gut, Jake?” Padre whispered. “Still tellin’ ye somethin’s afoot?”
Jake gripped the ship’s wheel a little tighter. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Ye want me to have a word with the person in charge?”
“Why not?” Jake replied, glancing at the stars. “Can’t do any harm.”
Chapter Two
The impact shook the entire ship. Jerked from a shallow, troubled sleep, Amy sat bolt upright, eyes wide in the darkness. “What, in God’s name…?”
She forced her foggy brain to think. Have we run aground? Or… oh, my god. Are we under attack? She raised her eyes to the ceiling, which also served as the upper deck. It rumbled with the sound of panicked feet, and muffled shouts of alarm drifted down from above. An attack, then. Pirates, most likely, out to steal the ship’s cargo. Amy’s blood turned to ice as she squinted into the darkness. Captive in the hold, she just happened to be surrounded by the ship’s cargo.
The pirates would no doubt be happy with what they’d find. It was an impressive inventory: a dozen trunks of Italian silk, a half-dozen casks of fine French brandy, a similar amount of Madeira wine… and a female captive.
“Bollocks,” she muttered, cursing her hellish luck as she switched her gaze to the door. It was locked now but wouldn’t be for long. Fear crawled over her flesh like ants. She’d heard tales of what pirates did to their captives. They were savages, men without hearts. As a woman, she could barely stand to imagine what they’d do to her. “Come on, Amy. Think. There must be something…” But she was trapped. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Unless…
She held her breath. The hold on the pirate ship wouldn’t be locked, would it? They had no cause to lock it, after all. If she could stow away on their ship, and remained undiscovered, she might be able to escape into whatever port they dropped anchor.
“Not the best plan, Amy,” she muttered, her heart in her throat. “But it’s all you’ve got.”
She started as a shout came from beyond the door, followed by the sound of someone rattling the padlock. Still barely able to see detail, she stumbled over to the trunks of silk, stifling a squeal as the door shook beneath an impact. She fought against a surge of panic, knowing she only had moments till the savages discovered her.
Another impact rattled the door as she fumbled with one of the latches and lifted the lid. “Please let there be room,” she whispered. “Please.”
The door burst open, and Amy knew her time was up. She clambered into the trunk, lowered the lid as quietly as she could, and whispered a silent prayer that the pirates would not notice the loose latch.
* * *
“I swear you’ll pay for this, putain de salaud!” The French captain’s lips curled back, baring straight, white teeth that glowed in the darkness. “I’ll not rest till I see your rotting carcass swinging on a gibbet.
”
Jake bared his teeth in an answering grin and pressed the point of his cutlass to the man’s flabby jowls. “You’re assuming I mean to let you live, mon ami,” he said, “and I have yet to decide your fate. How about death by a thousand cuts? Learned that one from a Chinese pirate. It’s slow and very painful. Messy, too. You’ll still be alive when we throw you overboard, of course, because all that blood draws the sharks, which is when the real entertainment begins.”
The man, bound to what was left of the ship’s mast, struggled against his bonds. “Va te faire enculer!” he snarled, teeth still bared.
Jake clicked his tongue in feigned disapproval. “Such language, Monsieur.”
Using the Gaelic tongue of Ireland, Fingal muttered in Jake’s ear, “Everything is loaded and stowed, Cap’n. ’Tis a good haul, methinks.”
Jake acknowledged with a slight nod, and then frowned as his captive threw a puzzled glance past him, toward the aftcastle door. Jake followed with a narrow-eyed glance of his own. Had they missed something?
“You’re sure you got it all?” Jake asked, still frowning.
“Aye, Cap’n. Wiped ’er clean.”
“All right. Make ready.” He gave his prisoner a sober smile. “Sadly, we must bid you farewell, Monsieur, but merci mille fois. ‘Tis always a pleasure doing business with the French.”
The man spat out a wad of bloodied sputum. “Bâtard!”
“Aye, that I am.” Jake flicked his blade and notched the Frenchman’s left earlobe. The man yelped, and a thin rivulet of blood snaked down to his collar. “A little souvenir of our night together,” Jake continued. “The lives of you and your men are of no value to us, so you may keep them. I leave you, instead, to the mercy of the wind and tides. Adieu, Monsieur.”
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