Seize The Dawn

by Drake, Shannon

  The pirate's sword came flying across the deck. Instinctively, Eleanor reached down for it. The weapon was fine, honed steel. Excellent. A Frenchman's rapier, light, sharp ... She picked it up. Tested it in her hands. Then she saw that the enemy who had so quickly slain the Frenchman was coming toward her. It was the dark-haired savage who had first fallen to the deck, leading the attack. There was something about him ... "Lay it down, lady," he told her quietly, his Norman French as well accented as any she had heard at court. She would never be deceived. She knew these men. She had learned about them firsthand. "Nay. Go your way, highlander. Go your way in peace. Leave me.""You're English." "I'm on my way to a French fiancé, and therefore, you had best take care."

  His eyes were very deep blue. He showed her even more amusement than the pirate de Longueville. Yet he watched her curiously as well. As if he recognized her. "Drop the sword," he told her. "We'll discuss this fiancé, your journey—and your future." "There is no future when one faces Scots!" she said, her loathing and contempt lacing the last. "Give it to me, or I shall take it." "Give it to him!" Bridie encouraged. "M'lady, for the love of God!" Eleanor gripped the skirt of her gown, sweeping it behind her, stepping forward. By God, she wouldn't burn. She might go to the sea, but she wouldn't burn, and she would never, ever throw herself on the mercy of a Scotsman!

  "Drop it!" He came forward with a thrust intended to ring power through the steel of her blade, and force her to drop it. She held fast, returning the strike with a speed that caught him unaware. She nicked his arm, drawing blood. Startled, he stared at the wound. She experienced a moment's supreme satisfaction at her small victory and his amazement, but when she quickly thought to make good on the element of surprise, he was ready. She attacked, but he parried. She was backed against the hull. She saw the danger of her position, and thrust and parried in a manner intended to free her from her position, to give her leverage to fight. But each clash of steel cost her more and more. She gained new position, but lost strength. She moved down the deck, grimly fighting, parry for parry. She knew nothing at first but the sound of steel harshly shrilling against steel, over and over again.

  Then she realized that no more battle sounds came from the rest of the ship. Daring to glance around, she saw that the battle had ended. How, and in whose favor, she could not tell. They all stood about: Scotsmen, Frenchmen, Norse sailors. Captain Abram and his English seamen had disappeared; they had either been killed or cast to sea long ago now. Her audience was one of enemies. Pirates. Madmen. Her opponent came at her with a force that first caused her arm to shudder in a terrible reverberation, then the length of her body. Even her teeth chattered and threatened to crack. She held fast to her weapon. But she looked into his face and saw a look of grim determination in eyes a darker blue than the roiling sea. His lips were drawn in a tight line. One hand was held behind his back; he wielded his sword with only the other. He had not so much as drawn a sweat, though she was still glad of the blood that stained his left sleeve. She did not drop her sword. She gasped for breath, and prayed for strength. She flew toward him, aiming for his heart. He watched her ...

  And retaliated at the last minute. And this time, his blow was such that no fear of fire or flame or even eternal damnation could give her the power to hold on to her own weapon. Her steel clattered to the deck. She held herself still then, teeth clenched hard, jaw set, the length of her rigid. She stared at him. No, she did not know him. Yes, she did. There was that something, so familiar ... A hint of recall, of seeing those eyes. Cries went up all around them. Maybe the pirates and ever the Scotsmen applauded her courage—and stupidity.

  But he was staring at her. Just staring at her, eyes narrowing He knew it, too. Knew that he knew her ... from somewhere "Who are you?" he demanded softly, curiously. "Who are you?" she cross-queried. Suddenly, she knew. She barely choked back a gasp. Perhaps he remembered as well, at exactly that moment, for it seemed that his entire countenance tightened and darkened He was prepared to take a step toward her. Her heart was beating faster than a hummingbird's wings. She dived past him, racing down the length of the ship. When she reached the aft, she didn't hesitate. She was aware of Bridie's shriek of alarm, yet it meant nothing to her. She leaped to the wooden ship's railing, looked to the sea. And dived.

  Chapter 2

  Brendan gave pause for one moment, incredulous. She had plunged into the Irish Sea. In the middle of winter. It was freezing, the water was churning. As could all too easily happen, the weather was changing. A beautiful day was turning into a stormy night. The English .. . idiot! Let her drown! For a moment, the bitter thought flashed through his mind. He had given her mercy once, and nearly died for it. He had spent years swearing that he would find her—and avenge himself. And now, suddenly, here she was. Time had gone by, and they had both changed, and it had taken him long moments to recognize her, though why, he could not now understand. Her blue-gray eyes were unique, as tempestuous as the threat of the storm now rising. Yet why not? He had etched her features into his memory. And still, he had never really expected to see her again. He had fought on, because the concept of surrender was not an option. She was English, lived on land fully controlled by the English king, far beyond his reach.

  Yet ... Here she was. A gift. On a platter. Now casting her fate to the depths! He leaped to the rail, plunging in after her. The Irish Sea was cold, bone-chillingly cold. The water hit him like a blow, an icy strike of lightning. The waves sucked at him, tossed him, made light of him as a man, powerless against this kind of force. Yet she had come here; she too, was rocked and tossed, with the air all but stolen from her lungs, arms flailing in an attempt to control her fate in the waves. He broke the surface and looked around, blinking the cold salt water from his eyes, using precious breath to curse her. Amazingly, she was ahead. He dived below the surface once again, warming himself with powerful strokes against the cold force of the sea. He broke the surface; still, she was ahead. He dived again. Thank God that she could swim, that she had not already been dragged downward into a spiral that would end in the darkness of the depths . . .

  He broke, treading water. He was gaining on her. Gaining, he thought, only because of the cumbersome clothing she wore, the long gown tangling around her legs ...She went under. He swam harder, swearing again, feeling a sudden desperation. A moment later, his hand touched fabric. He almost had her. Below the surface, she turned to stare at him. Her hair trailed out behind her like a golden banner, caught by sunlight, even while the gray of the coming storm threatened all illumination from above. She stared at him, at his hand where he gripped her gown. She had a knife, he realized suddenly! A knife. The blade was flashing through the water, and he might be taken completely unaware again. But the knife didn't strike him. Either by accident or intent, it slashed through the fabric of her dress. She was free, and swimming hard again. Now the length of a long, slim, perfectly formed leg flashed before him; she was escaping again.

  Yet... Escaping where? Just how far did she think she could get before she tired and perished? He pursued her again with a new burst of speed, surfacing to gasp air, plunging below again for the speed of movement he could achieve below the waves. A second later, he grasped flesh. His fingers curled around her ankle, and he jerked her back. She faced him in the water, golden hair streaming around her like the halo on a water-angel. She waved her arms through the water; he saw the knife still in her hand, and quickly grasped her wrist, vising with such force that she had no choice but to release her hold. The knife glittered briefly in the water, then drifted to the depths below. He maintained his grip upon her wrist, drawing her to the surface. Rain began to pelt them, and the light that had remained in the sky was gone as the last of the clouds covered the remnants of the day's sun.

  He slicked his hair back from his forehead, freeing her to tread the water. Behind him, he saw they had launched a small boat from the Wasp, and soon, it would be upon them. "You incredibly stupid woman!" he charged her. "You could have killed yourself." "Be
tter to die by my own hand than yours," she told him. "A suicide, my lady? A sin, by any judgment of God." "Perhaps I didn't intend death," she told him. "You'd never have reached the shore," he told her. She smoothed back her long, tangled, water-darkened hair, still meeting his eyes. ' 'Perhaps you 'd have never reached the shore," she told him. "I fully intended to do so." "It seems you are more impressed with your abilities than reason would allow." "Really? And that from a Scot, a nation of mountain men always far more arrogant regarding their strength than any sense of logic would allow." He was tempted to reach out and duck her back under the water. He'd killed in battle time and time again. It was, no matter what the call to glory, honor, or freedom, the taking of a human life. But random murder lay beyond reason, sanity, and Christianity. The water was very, very cold. He seemed to taste nothing but salt as the waves slapped around them and the rain pelted them. They should be thinking of survival. But still, he could not allow her the last word.

  "The Scots have bested a greater force many a time, lass." Her chin inched up out of the water. "I'm not a lass, and I'm an excellent swimmer." "Excellent—just not quite fast enough." "Brendan!"

  He turned at the call of his name. The small boat, manned by Eric and Collum, was nearly upon them. It was Eric calling out to them. In the growing squall, he and Eleanor were difficult to see, Brendan realized. "Here!" he called. As he turned, she started to swim again. Luckily, his reach was long. He caught an ankle again, jerking her back. She went under and came up coughing and gurgling. By then, Eric had brought the rocking boat up beside them. Strong hands reached down; he delivered her to them, then hiked himself over the edge, and landed, breathing hard, upon the bottom.

  "Cold?" Eric inquired, grinning. He looked up at his Norse kin's light blue eyes. "Aye, as a witch's tit!" he muttered, then remembered that they were carrying none other than the Lady Eleanor of Clarin with them, and she was convinced that they were uneducated peasants, ignorant, illiterate, and scarcely aware of the existence of books. He pulled himself up, hiking himself carefully into a seat. It was bitter, when a man was wet. Beyond cold. Eleanor was seated next to Collum at the aft. He turned to see her as Eric again took up the oars, shooting them back toward the ship. In their absence, the crews had already begun dislodging the grappling hooks.

  Their reluctant passenger had her arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself against the cold. She stared out over the water without expression. Yet she appeared rather blue, and her teeth were chattering ferociously. "Lady," Collum murmured, offering her the long swathe of tartan he had unwound to wear as cape and hook. He was a big, muscle-bound, red-headed man with an eye to aim better than any other he had ever met, and his voice was low and courteous. She seemed not to hear him, looking out over the water. Brendan turned to her. "Lady Eleanor, Collum is offering you the warmth of his wool." "It is a garment, sir, I would much rather freeze, than wear," she said simply. She flashed Collum a glance, and he thought that she would apologize—except that he was a Scot.

  Eric was about to take the fur cloak from his shoulders to offer her; Brendan stopped him, raising a hand. "Then, lady, you must freeze. Ah! Eric would offer you fur—but though he is Norse by the majority of his blood, and his inclination, he is my kinsman, and the Norse lands where he resides are extensions of my country. We understand how you would rather freeze." Her teeth were gritted and chattering. Still, she cast him one withering glare and sat dead still, staring into the night. Eric rowed them to the Wasp. He didn't help her from the small boat, but crawled the rope ladder first himself, and was glad of the fur coat quickly cast over his shoulders by Ian Dyerson, Eric's first mate at sea, right-hand man on land. He flashed him a quick smile of gratitude, then stood back, watching while Eleanor came aboard. She did so without help— preferring to climb by her own power rather than be assisted. She couldn't have been accustomed to such a climb, and he leaned over the rail as she slipped. "I'd aid you, my lady, but I don't want to distress you with the touch of these barbaric hands."

  "You're quite right; I will do fine on my own," she told him. And she did, coming aboard deftly, dripping as she did so. Moments later they stood on deck with a number of the Scots and Norse crew, and several of the pirates. Some of the men were still busy, disabling the attacking ships, while others simply stood still, staring at their arrival. Eleanor stood very straight, and very wet, and made the supreme effort not to shiver. She surveyed them all and turned to him. "You are in league with the pirates?" "I never met de Longueville before in my life, lady," he said, leaning casually back against one of the masts, dripping and trying not to shiver. "And we Scots are of one purpose, you know that. But in the midst of a clash of steel it occurred to both of us, the pirate and me, that we have much to offer one another." "And what is that?" she inquired. ' 'The terms of our agreement are really of little concern to you."

  "Since my vessel was attacked, my captain brutally murdered, and it appears that my ship's seamen have been hurled to the waves, I do consider it my concern. That the Scots have chosen to join with thieves is really no great surprise—" "That the Scots have chosen to join with thieves!" he interrupted, his anger suddenly flaring. "Edward is the thief, the English, lady, are constantly the thieves. Wales was stolen, her nobility slaughtered. The Scots did not come to London, m'lady, the English came north. Collum, see the Lady Eleanor to her cabin, if you will."

  Collum stepped forward. She backed away. "If you direct me, I will go," she told him. Brendan tired of the game, turning to Eric. "We've sent word back to William's ship?" "Aye, 'tis done."

  "Then I will rid myself of the Irish Sea as well." He left both the sailing and the situation to Eric's capable hands, and went below to change into dry clothing. He had also discovered that he needed time alone. He was beginning to shake with a vengeance, and it wasn't from the cold. Nay, not from the cold, but from memory.

  Though the ship bearing the crew of Norse and Scotsmen was sleek and narrow, built for speed, it also had been designed with a certain amount of comfort in mind. She was taken directly below, and was surprised to see, as she passed, that steps led down to an even lower deck, one carrying supplies, she surmised, and probably affording quarters for some of the seamen as well. Thiws deck offered a few small private quarters—so small a man could scarcely wedge his body into the cots, but private nonetheless. At the aft itself, though, was a fairly large cabin, fitting exactly to the design of the ship, with the narrowed rear allowing space for clothing, gear, or books, the port side offering a bunk, the starboard side allowing for a navigator's desk, or for the work of whatever rich man, noble, or official might be aboard. Someone had occupied this space, certainly. But she was surprised to see that her traveling trunk lay center in the generous, but still small space. It had been brought from her ship.

  Her heart was beating loudly as she came here; she had heard them say the name Wallace, and all that she knew of the man was that he was a bitter butcher who offered no mercy to his enemies. She knew that firsthand. His brutality had changed her life, brought her to a battlefield at Falkirk, and indirectly, here now. It seemed that Wallace was the head of this party, and as fate would have it, the young soldier she had chanced upon at the end of the fighting was directing their journey. Perhaps it was not surprising that they should join with pirates. It was true that Edward I would pay dearly to have the man in his hands. It was strange as well. Many of the Scottish barons had risen against Edward, surrendered, and been forgiven. But Edward loathed Wallace. He had stated time and again that he would never accept anything from the man other than total and unconditional surrender. And that, any man, enemy or friend knew, would never happen.

  Collum, the big fellow, ducked to maneuver the ship. She almost felt guilty. He was trying to be sympathetic and gentle. He couldn't possibly understand that she had good reason to despise his kind. He stood just outside the cabin as she entered it. "If there is anything you need—" "My maid," she said sharply. "Is she well?" "Aye, lady." "May she come to me?" "Nay, la
dy. Not now." "When?" "I don't—" "Ah, yes, never mind. You serve that jackanapes, and he will make the decisions." "Aye, lady. Lady, you are all but blue. If I might suggest—" "I'm to be locked in here?" She tried very hard to keep the fear from her voice. "Aye." She nodded, turning around. She didn't look back. A minute later, she heard the door close. She winced as she heard a bolt slide into place. She had no intention of panicking; she would fight her own demons. But it seemed that the door had scarcely closed when she smelled the smoke. She flew the few steps to the cabin door, banging hard against it. "Wait, please—" She heard a grating sound; the door flew open. Collum was gone. It was the man from the battlefield at Falkirk again. Still sodden and dripping, he appeared irritated. "Aye, my lady?" She backed away. "Something is burning. There is a fire." His eyes held hers for a moment. "Aye, lady, the English ship is set afire." "Are ..." "Are we what? I have told you, we are burning the ship. She was seized, scavenged, and now set ablaze. Are there men aboard? Nay, lady. No human or living animal will ever burn, if I am in command. Is that what you wished to ask?"

  She nodded, but oddly enough, she felt slightly ashamed. It wasn't what she had been about to ask. "Are we ... are we in any danger of catching fire here, on this ship?" There was a scratch to her voice as she queried him. She lowered her eyes, aware that he was studying her curiously, and very much wanting to avoid his perusal. "None whatsoever," he assured her. She nodded. He turned away. She didn't know what caused her to call him back. "Drowning in icy waters cannot be a kind form of death either." He paused, then turned back to her, watching her once again. "I assume not. Why did you wish it for yourself?" "I told you; I was not suicidal." "You would have drowned in this storm." "I am asking about Captain Abram, a gentle enough man, brought into this service by my kin. What was done to him will rest heavily on my heart for as long as I live." "For however long that might be," he murmured. "You do intend then to murder me?" She was startled that a smile actually curved his lips. ' 'Nay, lady. I am not an executioner. Your life span will probably be cut short due to your own recklessness. As to your Captain Abram, I have no idea what you're talking about."