The Highland Rogue

by Amy Jarecki

  “Nay—only watched me da swing an old rusty blade that had been handed down from his father.”

  “By the way you’re holding that waster, I might have guessed you’d had a lesson or two.”

  She made a cross slice, showing a natural ability. “Never.”

  Kennan sheathed his sword and picked up a wooden waster identical to the one in her hands. “A sword is too heavy for a woman.”

  She sliced the practice weapon back and forth. “This isn’t heavy in the slightest.”

  Without unsheathing it, he removed his sword belt and handed her his Scottish great sword. “There’s a fair bit of difference between the waster and the actual blade.”

  She weighed it in her hands. “I see—this might be difficult to wield in a long battle, but not too heavy at first.”

  “Many a man has lost his life on account of being ill prepared for a long fight.” He took the sword and leaned it against the fence. “I’d hate to see any woman embroiled in strife, but you are so skilled with a rock and a wee strip of leather, I’d advise you to keep your distance and take out your enemies one by one.”

  “So, ye’re saying ye think I might be useful in battle?”

  He eyed her. What was she driving toward? He opted for a neutral reply. “I reckon if you were a man, you’d be invaluable.”

  She drew a deep inhale through her nose, leveling her gaze with unquestioned fury. Again she brandished the waster. “Will ye show me how to use this?”

  “One doesn’t learn to wield a sword in one session.”

  “One can begin to learn.”

  “But a little knowledge can be fatal.”

  “So can nay knowledge at all.”

  “Very well.” He addressed the post, holding the weapon in both hands. “There are eight basic positions and from each you can either defend a strike or attack. If your opponent is advancing, you defend until you see an opening.”

  “Ye mean a mistake?”

  “Of sorts. Say I aim for a killing strike to your neck.” He demonstrated, carefully placing the waster against the pulse throbbing at the base of her slender neck. “Bob beneath my blade.”

  She ducked under and wove to her left as if he’d told her to do so. “Like this?”

  “Aye. And since my strike missed, I’m carried to my left with more force than I’d intended.” He followed through and pointed to his side. “Now my flank is open to you.”

  Divana lunged with her weapon. “So I go in for the kill?”

  Kennan dropped and rolled away from her pointy tip. “You can try, lassie.”

  “All right.” She moved back to a ready stance—the lass mightn’t know it, but she’d learned well from her da. “Shall we start at the beginning?”

  “’Tis always smart.”

  He moved through a form of the positions. “On guard, head, left shoulder, left gut, left leg, right shoulder, right gut, right leg.”

  Her feet stumbled as she raised the weapon to her side. “On guard?”

  “Close—you did it just a moment ago without knowing.” He moved in behind her and grasped her wrists. “When you are on guard you hold the hilt up and out, whilst eyeing your opponent, ready for his attack.”

  “Or her attack.”

  Kennan cleared his throat. “Hmm.” The scent of roses distracted him as he moved her hands up. “This is a very important position. Here you block deathly strikes to your head and neck.”

  “Very well.” Divana’s voice grew breathless, her shoulders relaxing against his chest.

  From behind, he craned his neck and observed her face as he took her through the motions. “If you want to become an accomplished swordswoman, you must first master these eight defenses.”

  “I can do that.”

  “You’ll practice every day?”

  She turned enough to look him in the eye. “I can when I’m not needed in the kitchens.”

  His breath caught in his chest. It felt so inexplicably good to keep her so close, to hold his arms around her. “I…ah…” He licked his lips, trying to convince himself he mustn’t kiss the soft, irresistible woman—but she was so tempting, her bow-shaped lips so utterly inviting. “Mayhap we should go through it once more?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Kennan’s knees turned to boneless mollusks as he dipped his chin and studied the curve of her neck. “On guard,” he purred at the side of her ear. Having been taught swordsmanship since the age of seven, going through the basic motions was like breathing. But his student excelled admirably. Divana’s arms were like clay in his hands as she intently studied each exact placement.

  “Right leg.” He whispered the final position as his lips caressed her creamy flesh.

  She drew in a gasp but didn’t push him away. “Ye will be my undoing, Sir Kennan Cameron.” The words came out low and sultry, as if she were fighting the same inner demons tormenting him.

  Unable to help himself, he applied a gentle kiss at the base of her throat—right atop the pulse quivering in a steady rhythm.

  Her inhale came in a stuttered gasp, her lithe body shifting against him.

  Though it nearly tore him to bits, he forced himself to lower his arms to his sides. “Forgive me. I did not intend to take liberties.”

  A lovely blush spread up her neck, the wee pulse thrumming faster. “We are so similar ye and I, yet separated by an uncrossable divide.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Divana stared at nothing while she worked the butter churn—an unending rhythm of up and down. With her mind stuck in a muddled mire, at least the monotony of churning didn’t require her to be terribly attentive. She’d done everything she could think of to convince Kennan to take her to sea, and yet her efforts resulted in failure.

  Worse, Lachie Mor had arrived at Achnacarry two nights ago, and since, the castle was in upheaval. Of course the men weren’t allowed inside the castle—they camped in the stables or beyond the wall. But working in the kitchens was like being in the midst of the wars. Cook madly prepared food while stores arrived by the wagonload.

  When the crewmen weren’t on the practice field with their captain, they were preparing for the voyage. Every time Divana stepped outside, Kennan was in conversation with his da or Lachie Mor or Mr. MacNeil or even Cook. He was so wrapped up in his affairs, he paid no mind whatsoever to her aside from a smile here, a hello there. And though the great Cameron captain had relegated Divana to the depths of uselessness, Runner, at the age of sixteen, had been promoted to ship’s mate.

  “Baltazar,” she said as the boy strode into the kitchens and retrieved a large basket from the table.

  “Aye?”

  Her hand stilled on the churn. “Do ye ken if Sir Kennan has named a replacement for cabin boy?”

  Snorting, Runner looked at her as though she’d grown two heads. “Nay. Not all ships have cabin boys.”

  “What about cabin lassies?” she mumbled under her breath while she resumed her rocking, her arm numb from the repetitive movement.

  “How is that butter coming?” asked Cook, wiping her hands on her apron while the lad slipped away without answering her question. “Sir Kennan needs it afore they set out to board the Lady Heather.”

  Divana’s spine snapped straight. “When are they leaving?”

  “Och, have ye not heard the commotion? They’re hitching the wagons now.”

  Her gaze shot to the window. “Now? Ye must be jesting!”

  “Nay. They’ll be off just as soon as I parcel up the last of the stores. Good heavens, by the list I received from Sir Kennan, he’ll be at sea for months afore he replenishes.”

  Divana gripped her stomach. Months before he replenished? How long would he be away? And why hadn’t he mentioned a single word about his departure date to her?

  Cook opened the lid and peered inside the churn. “Och, this is fine butter. You’ve an arm like an iron crank.”

  Divana swirled the handle around as she pushed to her feet. “Comes from years of practic
e with the slingshot.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind me.” She backed toward the door. “Would ye permit me to step out for a time? After all that churning, I reckon I need a wee bit of air.”

  Cook hefted up the churn and cradled it in her sturdy arms. “Och, you’ve been working since daylight, lass. Take a slice of shortbread and go give your legs a good stretch.”

  If there was one thing Divana couldn’t resist, it was Cook’s shortbread. She took a wedge and clipped off a bite with her teeth. Her eyes rolled back when the sweet, buttery pastry melted on her tongue. But as soon as she stepped outside and looked toward the stables, the pleasure vanished.

  Gripping the biscuit in her fist, she stood in the shadows of the bathhouse and watched the hub of activity beyond. The men were busy loading barrels, carpenter’s supplies, baskets, and Lord knew what else onto wagons. They rolled up enormous pieces of canvas and coiled rope while oxen stood harnessed, stamping their feet as if itching to go.

  “Finished with your churning?” Runner asked, approaching with an enormous grin. He was one of the few allowed in the inner courtyard. “There’s always excitement on the air when a ship’s about to set sail.”

  She wanted to bat the feathered bonnet off his head. “Och, such a thing is easy for ye to say.”

  “Whyever do ye sound so woeful?” The boy drew a dirk form his belt and stabbed it through the air, his eyes filled with excitement. “We’re heading on a grand adventure, and now I’m a full-blown mate, the captain will let me fight pirates for certain.”

  “A laddie of sixteen?” she spat out.

  “Nearly seventeen, mind ye.”

  “Aye, that makes all the difference.” Divana didn’t hide the sarcasm in her voice. It burned her to the core to look at the proud young man, going to sea with Sir Kennan because he happened to have the right sex between his legs while she was forced to remain behind.

  She eyed the lad. “Baltazar,” she said, using his Christian name, which always commanded his attention whenever she spoke it. “If ye had to make a guess, how long would ye say ye’ll be away?”

  “Forever, if my opinion mattered.” The lad grinned as if he were embarking on the adventure of a lifetime. “But I reckon it’ll take a good six months to a year to find the Reel. And then the captain will have to figure a plan to steal her back. I’m thinking that will take ages, knowing the likes of Jackson Vane. Once we’ve taken the ship, we’ll most likely need to call into port for repairs—which may take a few months, depending on damages and supplies.” He scratched the fuzzy hairs on his chin. “Och, repairs might take an entire year. And ’tis up to God and the wind on how long sailing home will be.” He gave her an assured nod. “Mayhap two years.”

  Divana drew a hand over her sinking heart. “Two years?” She’d be an old spinster by then. And what was there for her at Achnacarry? Garry had finally proposed to Fiona, and once they were wed, they planned to move into a cottage in the village. Without Fiona, work would be tedious to say the least.

  “Runner, stop your dawdling and help load these planks,” Lachie Mor shouted as he slapped a cat-o’-nine-tails in his leathery palm.

  Alone again, Divana wandered through the bustle with hardly a soul glancing her way. Even Kennan stood at the far end of the outer courtyard surrounded by men as he pointed this way and that. True, by the bustle, he had a great deal of responsibility, though she still tried to will him to look her way.

  When finally he did, his features grew dark. He uttered something to one of the crewmen and headed her way. “There you are.”

  Her stupid heart fluttered. “I thought ye were about to set off without saying good-bye.”

  “Never.” He ran a hand across his mouth, shifting his eyes. “The last of the stores came in yesterday afternoon. ’Twas late when we made the decision to load the wagons.”

  Her heart sank to her toes. “So then ye’ll be gone for two years or more?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Ah…” What could she say? He’d made his decision. “Think of me when ye spread butter on your ship’s biscuits. I churned it meself.”

  “I will.”

  Did he not know she was falling apart on the inside?

  “Sir Kennan!” Lachie Mor hollered.

  The sea captain looked toward the quartermaster, then back at her. “I haven’t much time.”

  “Nay,” she snapped. “I’m certain his question is more important.”

  Kennan’s expression grew darker. “It might be more urgent, but not more important.”

  “Whatever ye say.”

  He brushed his knuckle over her cheek. “I shall miss you, please know that. However…” His jaw twitched.

  Did she dare hope? “Aye?”

  “I do not want you to worry about me. You’re a beautiful young woman, free to make your own choices, and it is time for you to move on with your life.”

  “Sir Kennan!” Lachie Mor shouted.

  Wiping her eyes, Divana refused to cry in front of him. She was free to make her own decisions? What if what she wanted was not possible? The only man she had ever loved, the man who had protected her and freed her from her island prison, was leaving. Worse, he was telling her to move on with her life.

  “Go. Ye are needed,” she said, turning and fleeing.

  “Divana!” Kennan called after her.

  “Bless it,” Lachie boomed. “How many sheep are we to take aboard?”

  Clapping her hands over her ears, Divana didn’t want to hear it. She wanted to run away and forget she’d ever met Kennan Cameron even though the Highlander was burned onto her memory forever—his kindness, his friendly banter, the caring way he’d taught her to wield a sword.

  By the time she stopped, her slice of shortbread had disappeared and she was well away from the bustle, standing among dozens of barrels. Most were already sealed, but the one beside her was completely empty. Her stomach squeezed as she checked over each shoulder. Many of the men had shifted their attention to loading the livestock onto a wagon—and it appeared the sheep weren’t about to go without a fight. On the way up the ramp, a lamb jumped through a gap in a makeshift fence. With frantic bleating, the lamb’s mother knocked the barrier down as she leapt from the ramp, leading the way for the rest of the flock while sailors scattered to round them up.

  Within the blink of an eye, Divana raced into the keep and ran up the winding stairs until she reached her chamber. She spread a thick plaid on the bed and tossed the few items she’d collected since arriving at Achnacarry—a comb, flint, a candle, a spare shift, a brush for her teeth, a drying cloth, slingshot, and the most precious item of all, the carving Kennan had whittled on Hyskeir. Swiftly she folded in the sides and made a roll.

  After tiptoeing to the kitchen larder, she took an old grain sack and swiped a loaf of bread, a handful of dried meat, some bannocks, and two bottles of watered wine. Tucking everything under her arm, she stood at the corner of the doorway and waited until the corridor was clear. Only then did she rush out to the bathhouse, where she propped her back against the wall and stood, pretending she wasn’t catching her breath, trying to appear as if it were an ordinary spring day. Thank heavens the men were still rounding up the mob of sheep.

  Divana looked toward the barrels—they hadn’t yet been touched—and nary a soul was near them.

  After a sailor brushed past not even giving her a second glance, she strolled at a normal pace until she reached the barrel, turned full circle, and dropped her things inside. She chanced another scan of the courtyard and set the lid on a neighboring barrel. Planting both hands on the rim, she hefted herself up, straightening her arms. The barrel teetered as she raised her knee. Encumbered by her skirts, she couldn’t swing her miserable leg high enough.

  Curses!

  The men had all but three of the sheep loaded on the wagon.

  Divana’s gaze darted to a quarter barrel. If she didn’t hide now, she’d be caught for certain. Quickly, she
shoved the smaller cask beside her empty barrel. Using the wee cask as a step she climbed atop, grabbed her skirts, and leaped inside, landing on the watered wine and twisting her ankle.

  “Ow!” she hissed, rubbing away the pain. Holding her breath, she dared to peek over the rim. Thank goodness Lachie Mor wasn’t marching over, swinging his cat-o’-nine-tails in a rage. In fact, no one had seemed to notice. She snatched the cover and pulled it over her head.

  Sitting for a moment, she blinked while her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A sliver of daylight shone through the cork hole and her knees were a bit cramped, but there was no chance in Hades she’d entertain a change of heart now.

  Divana’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as heavy footsteps neared. Would she be caught?

  “Why haven’t these barrels been loaded?” bellowed the quartermaster, thumping the side of Divana’s cask, nearly making her squeal. Her erratic pulse hammered. And if she’d jolted any higher, she would hit her head on the lid and give her hiding place away. Trying to calm her racing heart, she clapped her hands over her mouth and held her breath, ready for the humiliation to come.

  A myriad of footsteps crunched about her barrel.

  Did the quartermaster know she was within? Had anyone seen her?

  Her question was answered when someone laid her barrel on its side and rolled it! Divana clutched her possessions tightly to her breast as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to swallow back the bile and shortbread being sloshed in her stomach.

  If I can survive on Hyskeir—I can survive this!

  * * *

  But Divana was wrong.

  She’d never sailed beyond the Inner Hebrides or on a voyage lasting more than an hour or two. At first, aside from Divana’s not being able to see, everything seemed to be fine. Once they’d carted her aboard, she chewed on a bit of dried meat and drank some watered wine. But a few hours later, the hull began to groan like a retching dragon. Worse, Divana’s stomach followed suit, and she spent the next day curled up at the bottom of the barrel praying for either relief or death—whichever came first. Several times she had surged upward, retching over the side of the barrel, positive her insides had emptied and she was about to die.