The Highland Rogue

by Amy Jarecki

  By the time the seasickness had run its course, she had no idea how much time had passed. The hold was dark and already stank of excrement from the animals they’d taken aboard, though a crew of men came down daily to siphon out the water. Nonetheless, inches of tainted sludge sloshed outside her barrel.

  During daylight hours, a faint ray of light shone through the lattice portal in the deck above. A bit more light came through when men removed the cover to clean the bilges. But they never saw her—she made certain of it. The rats stayed hidden as well. Those hideous varlets pattered about only when it was dark. And for some reason they weren’t afraid of her. Divana had to pull the cover over her head when she slept and ate to keep them from crawling into the cask with her. Of course she’d learned her lesson the hard way when she awakened to a rat in her lap with his head in her sack, finishing off the last of her bread.

  And now she’d gone a whole day without eating a morsel. Her stomach growled and clawed at her insides like the early days on Hyskeir—before she’d perfected throwing the slingshot—before she knew all the tricks about clamming.

  The problem was now that she’d stowed away, she had no idea how to feed herself. What if she was discovered and Kennan decided to return to Scotland? Or abandon her on an isle like Hyskeir for the rest of her days just as her own kin—people she’d loved—had done?

  And what if a roguish sailor found her? Some of the shipmates had come from Glasgow, and from the little she’d seen of them on their visits to the hold, they weren’t as friendly as the folks at Achnacarry had been. Kennan had warned her about wily crewmen. She needed to steer clear of them.

  If only she could find Runner, he’d help her for certain.

  Lachie Mor would most likely throw her overboard. And the boatswain, Mr. MacNeil, had a knife scar that ran from his forehead to his chin. A lass only needed to look at that man to know he was surly. Who knew what he was capable of? If only Kennan would visit the hold, she’d be brave enough to show herself then. After all, he was the reason she was in this predicament. As the captain of the ship, he had to make an inspection sooner or later. Right?

  Long after the light faded, Divana removed her slippers and used her toes to feel her way, carefully walking across the tops of the barrels, crouching and bending her knees in tandem with the rocking of the ship. Halfway, she stopped and glanced back into the darkness while her stomach growled and clawed with hunger. No, she mustn’t go back now, lest she have no strength whatsoever come morn. She counted twenty barrels to where the ladder ought to be, but as she reached forward her hands felt nothing.

  It has to be here.

  Dropping to her hands and knees, she stretched as far as she could until her fingers brushed a wooden post.

  Praise be!

  She climbed upward toward the faint light until she reached the lattice, then pushed it aft as the men had done. When it wouldn’t budge, she pushed harder.

  Still nothing.

  A creaking sound came from above. Divana crouched, her gaze snapping toward the direction of the noise. An unlit lantern swung from a beam, and behind it a sconce glowed with a yellow light. The ship’s sounds were different up there, and she held very still, clinging to the rung while she listened. Snores came from the distance, the slap of waves against the hull. The creak of timbers, even the flap of canvas sails, cut through the chilly night air.

  Once certain she was alone, she tried moving the lattice again. This time it budged about a half inch before jamming, but not before Divana caught sight of a wooden dowel.

  Curses!

  She braced her feet on one rung and held on to the top with her right, stretching out with her left. Her hand barely fit through the gap. Clenching her teeth, Divana stretched, trying to close the gap. Her fingers brushed the dowel, but it was too far to gain a hold. Her neck cramped as she strained to see her target. Inching up on her toes and extending her grasp on the rung, she stretched farther until her fingers wrapped around the pin. Her entire body wobbled as she dangled with one toe on the ladder and two fingers gripping the rung.

  Just a wee bit more.

  With a grunt she used all her strength to lever up the peg from its hold. As it released, her body swung down and around, crashing into the ladder. Up top, the dowel hit the deck with a hollow clank as loud as a smithy’s hammer.

  Divana wrapped her arms around the ladder and hung on for dear life while she imagined the entire crew waking with a start and charging into the mid-deck with weapons drawn. Though it was chilly, a bead of sweat streamed down the side of her face.

  As her breathing calmed, she heard not a single footfall approach. She glanced into the blackness of the hold. The pattering of scampering rats sounded below.

  Should I go back?

  To the tune of her growling stomach, she strengthened her resolve. Divana hadn’t stowed away to cower and die in a barrel—a fate far worse than living alone and abandoned on a deserted isle.

  It didn’t take long to shift the trapdoor enough to slip out. On the mid-deck the air was fresher, and the wafting aroma from a pottage led her forward to the galley while her mouth watered. And she was right. A large pot secured to an old brick hob simmered with brine and salt pork. Overcome with hunger, she grabbed a wooden spoon and ladled a few bites into her mouth, burning her tongue. Round ship’s biscuits caught her eye next. She chewed as fast as she could, devouring the food like a starved dog.

  But the dry biscuit stuck in her mouth, her saliva like glue. In the corner was a tapped beer cask and beside it a basket full of wooden cups. She filled one and greedily drank while ale streamed from the corner of her mouth.

  But it wasn’t enough and the longer she stayed, the greater the chances of being caught. She filled her cup once again, then set to spreading a cloth and filling the center with biscuits. She tied the ends and cradled it in her arms, then picked up her cup and headed off.

  Except Lachie Mor blocked her escape. His blue eyes blazed, his mouth hidden by a face full of grizzled whiskers.

  “Saint Columba,” she uttered, freezing where she stood, the food in her belly turning to lead.

  “What the bloody blazes are you doing here?”

  Divana glanced beyond his shoulder while clutching the food in her arms. If a lass could wilt and die, this would be the moment. Visions of being whipped and humiliated in front of the crew danced through her mind. Should she run? But to where? “I…ah…stowed away.”

  “Aye. That part is obvious, but why?” Rather than take her by the scuff of the neck, the man leaned against the galley’s jamb. “The captain never allows women aboard.”

  Her tongue slipped to something caught between her molars and probed. “Whyever not?”

  “On account of they cause trouble.”

  “I’m no trouble. I swear it.”

  “I beg to differ. You’ve just caused me a great deal of consternation.”

  “But I can help. I-I’ll do anything. I can—”

  “Och, there are some things you’ll not do, mark me.” He poked his head out of the galley and looked to and fro. “Who kens you’re here?”

  “No one.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’ve been hiding in a barrel in the hold since we sailed.”

  “For four bloody days?”

  “Has it been that long?” This conversation was going nowhere. She clutched the sea biscuits tighter. Bless it, she wasn’t about to starve—not when there was an abundance of food. “What do ye aim to do with me?”

  He scowled. “I ought to bend you over my knee and give you a good hiding.”

  She took a step back. “Ye wouldn’t do that.”

  “I would if it were up to me. But seeing the captain has a soft spot for you, I’ve no choice but to hand you over to him and hope he sees fit to do the honors.”

  A soft spot? Perhaps public humiliation might be worth the pain, especially if it was issued by the captain. Would Kennan take a switch to her backside?

  �
�Now, I need you to step lightly, lass. I’ll take you to his cabin, but we must ensure no one sees.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause if the men ken there’s a woman on board, there’ll be anarchy.”

  “But there are women ashore,” she whispered.

  “That’s different.”

  “I fail to see why.”

  “Wheesht. Keep your head down and follow me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kennan’s eyes flashed open with the rap on his cabin door.

  “Captain?” Lachie Mor’s voice rumbled through the timbers. Hearing the quartermaster’s voice at this hour meant nothing good.

  As he jolted up, the bedclothes slid to Kennan’s waist. “Come.”

  Footsteps shuffled while Lachie led with his lamp, making it impossible to see a thing. “We’ve a stowaway.”

  Kennan stood, dragging the plaid around his hips and knotting it. “A stowaway? Why the devil did you bring him up here?” It wasn’t like Lachie to awaken him in the middle of the night on account of a useless varlet.

  The quartermaster stretched to hang his lamp on a ceiling hook. Only then did Kennan get a good look at the prisoner. He shook his head and blinked.

  Then he swiped a hand across his eyes, just to ensure they hadn’t deceived him.

  Nay. It was Divana Campbell, just as plain as ink on parchment.

  And she stood with shoulders back and chin high like Zenobia facing the Romans.

  He ought to be spitting with ire. He ought to give her a good chiding for disobeying him. Yet, if he weren’t in the middle of the Atlantic, he’d be ever so happy to see her. He sauntered forward, rubbing his fingertips. If only the quartermaster weren’t standing like a slavering bulldog, Kennan might pull the woman into his arms and forget her defiance. But right now he had to be a captain to his men first. “What the blazes are you doing aboard my ship, lassie?” he demanded.

  Divana glanced at Lachie, who gave her elbow a shove. “Go on. May as well have out with it.”

  Before she spoke, her gaze slipped to Kennan’s chest. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip while her eyes dipped lower before meandering back up to his face. She’d seen him without a shirt before, but if he knew anything about women, she’d just undressed him without uttering a word. He gulped as she stared into his eyes without so much as a flinch.

  And she looked so damned self-righteous. Did she not know he’d be within his rights to hang her for stowing away? Cleary not by the purse of her lips, the arch of a single, saucy eyebrow.

  “Who in all of Scotland do ye think ye are forcing me to bide me time at Achnacarry whilst you sail away on the high seas for Lord kens how long?” She jammed her fists into her hips. God, she was bonny when angry. “And after I sat by your sickbed without a lick of sleep night after night. Twice, mind ye!”

  Hadn’t he explained it clearly enough? Females didn’t go to sea with a ship full of randy sailors. “Women do not sail on merchant ships—not unless they’re—” Paying passengers.

  “Why not?”

  Lachie Mor smirked. “On account the lads will start behaving like stags during the rut.”

  Slicing his hand through the air to demand silence, Kennan shifted his attention to the quartermaster. “Who else kens she’s aboard?”

  “Only me.” When the old man thwacked Divana’s shoulder, Kennan’s blood boiled. “Aye, lass?”

  Then Lachie swallowed his grin when she elbowed him back, the spitfire. “Aye.”

  “Leave us,” Kennan said.

  As the quartermaster closed the door behind him, Kennan pulled out a chair from his walnut dining table and gestured for Divana to sit. God’s bones, she smelled like the bilges.

  “I’m nay going back to Scotland.”

  He’d already considered calling into port at Bermuda and paying for a transport to take her home. In fact, he still might. “At Achnacarry you have plenty to eat, you have shelter and the protection of Clan Cameron. I kent you’d be well cared for there.”

  “What is all that without ye?”

  “Good Lord, Divana. Many women—no, all women bide their time at home whilst their men are a-sea.”

  “Well, I’m not ‘all women,’ mind ye. If ye’ve forgotten, I can take care of meself quite nicely.”

  “Except when you’re living in a castle with my father and my kin, it seems.”

  “I was working as a servant in your castle. And I’m nay here on account of being unable to manage.”

  “Were you forced to remain there? Was anyone unkind? I’ve asked you before and you’ve always denied mistreatment.”

  “Why must ye make me say it?” She pushed to her feet with such vehemence, the chair teetered. “I cannot abide being without ye. I ken ye do not love me. I ken ye look upon me as wretched and undeserving—but whether ye like it or nay, I am bound to ye, Kennan Cameron. If it weren’t for ye, I would still be alone on Hyskeir digging for clams and hunting eiders. But ye rescued me, and now I’m lost, I say, lost and just as alone as I was on that wee isle.”

  “You are neither wretched nor undeserving. You are resolute and capable, and I have severely misjudged your tenacity.” Kennan turned away and strolled to the windows looking out over the stern, the foaming wake calming compared to the tempest in his cabin. This woman had done so much to help him. Moreover, he liked her. Not only that, she had been the object of his dreams since sailing from Scotland. She was funny and thoughtful and, bless it, she was as bonny as a rose. He glanced at her over his shoulder. What the hell was he supposed to do with her now? Marry the lass?

  That might keep her safe from the crew, but it sure would send Lochiel into a rage. Kennan was duty-bound to marry an heiress. Da surely alluded to it often enough. Clan and kin are your first priority, Da had said more times than Kennan could remember.

  “Ye need a cabin boy, do ye not?” she asked, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

  Kennan faced her, looking at the lass from head to toe. She was shorter than Runner by a hand and slim enough that it wouldn’t be difficult to hide her breasts. “You’ll have to cut your hair,” he said, wishing he hadn’t. God, he loved her mane of coppery locks.

  She pulled her tresses into a tail over her shoulder. “If it means ye’ll allow me to stay, then aye.”

  “There’s no other way,” he insisted.

  “It will grow back in time.”

  “You’ll have to sleep on a pallet in here. I’ll not take a chance on anyone discovering your sex.”

  “Och, Kennan!” She dashed across the floor and wrapped her arms around him, showering his cheeks with kisses. “Thank ye, thank ye, thank ye!”

  He closed his eyes, trying to fight his reaction, but how was a man supposed to resist a bonny lass kissing him? Especially when she felt so good in his arms? Before he pushed her away, he brushed his lips over her forehead, the mere effort making his heart twist. Bless it, the depth of his affection hadn’t waned in the slightest. Nonetheless, he stiffened and affected a gruff voice. “If you’re planning to impersonate a lad, there’ll be no hugging and kissing, ye ken?”

  She dropped her hands to her sides and stood at attention. “Aye, sir.”

  “And you’ll climb to the crow’s nest and man your watch.” Only when the weather is fine, bless it.

  That lovely, defiant chin ticked up. “I’m nay afraid.”

  “And you’ll do my bidding.”

  “Haven’t I always done that?”

  “You have—barring your presence in my cabin.” His mind riffled through all the reasons this was a bad idea while he pulled the wooden tub out from under his four-poster bed. “Who on the crew might recognize you—that is after we’ve fashioned a disguise?”

  “Runner for certain. Lachie Mor, of course. Mayhap Mr. MacNeil—but most everyone else was away in Glasgow. And they were at Achnacarry only a few days. I reckon ye had them all too busy to pay a mind to me—besides, I’ll look far different once I don a disguise.”

  “Very
well.” Those three he trusted to keep mum—as long as he spoke with them come dawn. He poured the contents of his ewer into the tub, the water barely covering the bottom. “Ye’ll have to wash in seawater. ’Tis what the rest of us use.”

  Her entire face blushed. “Wash?”

  He sniffed and made a sour face. “I take it you’ve been stowing away near the bilges?”

  She nodded, toying with the lace on her kirtle. “Ye’ll promise to turn your back?”

  “Promise.” Kennan fetched two of the seawater pails stationed for dousing fires. She still had no idea he’d already seen her bathe—an image that plagued him most nights. Not plagued, exactly, perhaps tortured, befuddled. Nay, Kennan was never befuddled.

  “And ye’ll don a shirt this instant,” she demanded—the cheek of her.

  “Beg your pardon?” he asked, pouring the water.

  “How is a lass supposed to remain thick-skinned when the captain is tending her bath wearing nothing save a plaid tucked about his hips?”

  His damned loins stirred. Fie, they more than stirred. There was a bloody tent growing at the front of the wool. Quickly, he pulled a shirt over his head, thankful it was long enough to cover his hips. “You’ve seen my chest before.”

  “Aye.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. The sooner he chopped off those distracting tresses, the less alluring she’d be.

  And he’d just agreed to turn her into a cabin boy and pretend she was a lad? For how long?

  Lord save me.

  * * *

  If Divana had known being caught in the galley would result in earning her a pallet in the captain’s cabin, she might have actually tried to be caught by the quartermaster a few days earlier. Though, if she were caught too soon, Kennan would have taken her home for certain.

  She swirled the bar of pine-scented soap on a wet cloth while she looked over her shoulder. The braw captain sat at his writing table with his back to her, his quill making loops and flickering like a warbler’s tail. The light from the lamp danced, making him appear larger and his hair more golden, more surreal. Yet he was asleep when Lachie Mor had knocked.