The Highland Rogue

by Amy Jarecki

  “I apologize for waking ye. I’ll wager ye’re awfully tired.”

  “Not to worry,” he said, slightly raising his head. “I’m awakened often when at sea. A captain’s work is never done.”

  She scrubbed her face and hair—it seemed so short now that he’d cut it to her shoulders. Every time she ran her fingers through it, her tresses dropped while her hand kept going. ’Twas as if she’d lost a limb. “I’ll be finished directly.”

  His quill stilled for a moment. “Take your time.”

  “What are ye writing?”

  “I’m recording the day’s events in the ship’s journal.”

  “Do ye not do that afore ye retire?”

  “I do, but since rousing I’ve recalled another entry which needed to be made.”

  Was he writing about her? If only Divana could read, she’d know. “I wish I kent my letters.”

  This time his chin turned in line with his shoulder—not quite looking, curse it all. “Would you like to learn?”

  “Och, I’d give all me pay from Achnacarry to be able to read and write.”

  “Very well. I’ll teach you.”

  As soon as her fingers touched the bar, the slippery soap shot beneath her knees. “Ye will? Truly?”

  “We’ll be on this ship a long time. I’d guess you’ll be able to read anything of your choosing by the time we return.”

  “And ye’re nay too busy for the likes of me?” she asked, finally gripping the soap.

  “Do not misunderstand, daily routines aboard ship are taxing. However, I’d think a lesson before you turn in each night will suffice—neither of us will be too occupied for that. Most days, anyway.”

  Could things grow better? Not only would she be alone with Kennan every night, he’d be teaching her letters! Divana stretched out a leg and pushed bubbles between her toes.

  Kennan rose and stretched, keeping his back turned. Clearly, he was bent on keeping his promise. “I’ll set to making up a pallet.”

  She rinsed her feet. “I can do that.”

  “Nay, you’d best finish your bath and don the clothes I set out.”

  “I’m done.” After checking to ensure his back was still turned, she stood and reached for the drying cloth. Curses, why had she told him not to look? He hadn’t stolen a wee peek the entire time she was in the tub. And why not? She knew he liked her—mayhap he didn’t want to marry her, but he’d kissed her before and rather passionately.

  Perhaps he was angry. After all, she’d disobeyed him. And now he was stuck having her in his chamber for the duration of the journey.

  But Divana had time to win his affections—two whole years if she was lucky. Now that they were together, she was bound to find some way to make him fall in love with her. Then perhaps he mightn’t want to marry a highborn gentlewoman. If he truly loved her, he would never abandon her even if he was away captaining a ship now and again.

  Right?

  She held up the square linen garment Kennan had set out beside the breeches. A tie was sewn at each of four corners. “What am I supposed to do with this square thing?”

  “They’re drawers.”

  “Drawers? I haven’t seen ye wear these afore.”

  “They’re worn with breeches—cover a man’s private parts.”

  “Over the top or beneath?”

  “Are you covered?”

  She pulled the drying cloth up high enough to conceal most everything. “Aye.”

  “Allow me to demonstrate.” He took the drawers and tied the two corners around his waist from front to back, then he pulled the length through his legs and tied the other two from back to front. “See? Easy.”

  “Who wears such things?”

  “Any number of men—including myself when I’m wearing breeches.” He held the trousers up. “The falls are buttoned in the front.”

  “I ken that.”

  He handed her the drawers and turned his back. “Carry on, then.”

  With all the ties, Divana managed to keep the breeches on without having them drop to her knees. But then she held up the enormous bandage he intended for her to use to bind her breasts. “How am I supposed to wind this around me?”

  Spreading a plaid on his hands and knees, his body grew still. “Do you need help?”

  “I suppose I could stretch it out across the floor and roll it up.”

  “May I turn?”

  She didn’t dare breathe as she clutched the cloth in front of her, knowing she was barely covered. “Aye.”

  Kennan’s eyes grew dark as they shifted from her face and meandered downward. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he stood and moved toward her. “You’ll need to figure out how to do this yourself.” His voice had grown gruffer than usual. But he made quick work of wrapping the cloth around her torso four times before he tucked in the edge.

  He stood back and gave her a once-over. “God’s bloody stones,” he growled.

  She glanced downward. “What is it?”

  He tossed her the shirt. “Put this on.”

  She did as told while he stood back and crossed his arms, a disapproving slant to his brows. “You still look too bloody female.”

  She flicked her damp tresses. “With my hair shorn?”

  “Your hair has nothing to do with it.” He brushed his hand over the floorboards, then smeared her face. “A bit of dirt will help.”

  “Och, I just bathed, ye ken.”

  “Aye, and you smell a great deal better.” He opened his trunk and retrieved a man’s feathered bonnet. “Wear this low over your brow and try to scowl as much as possible.”

  She put it on. “What about shoes?”

  His gaze dropped to her toes while his tongue tapped his upper lip. “Are you still more comfortable in bare feet?”

  She turned one foot inward. “I reckon so.”

  “Mine are far too large and you cannot skip across the main deck wearing a pair of women’s slippers. You’ll have to go without until we call into port.” He took a step nearer and pinched the front of her shirt. “I’ll buy you a pair of square-toes.”

  A sharp gasp slipped through her lips as he tugged her closer—so close his breath warmed her forehead. Divana dared to look into his eyes. He stood very still, the reflection in those mysterious pools of green ravenous.

  “A-are ye hungry?” she whispered.

  His lips parted slightly while his gaze fell to her mouth. “Starved.”

  Aye, she knew exactly what he meant. The hardest part of being so near him was no touching and no kissing. As she rose onto her toes, her body couldn’t manage to remember the rules. Just one wee kiss. She studied the fullness of his masculine lips while a torrent of energy swirled throughout her body.

  Time slowed as his chin dipped. And with her next blink, he swept her into his arms and covered her mouth.

  Riding a wave of unbridled longing, Divana grasped his cheeks as she closed the distance. The day’s growth on his face felt like sandpaper beneath her fingers, the masculinity of it serving to heighten her need. His tongue swept into her mouth with bold strokes, every bit as raw and unapologetic as it was seductive.

  Her toes curled as she matched his fervor swirl for swirl. Why had she pushed him away at Beltane? Why, when she’d wanted him so desperately?

  Divana threw her head back as he trailed tiny kisses along her neck, making her body tingle in places she must never mention. She grew numb as he lifted her into his arms and carried her across the floor and set her on the bed.

  As he gazed upon her with glistening eyes, she reached up for another kiss. Grinning, he avoided her mouth and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Sleep well, my angel.”

  Then with a deep sigh he backed to the pallet and lay down.

  “What are ye doing?” She sat up. “That is me bed ye’re on. Ye are the captain. Ye’re supposed to sleep here.”

  He pulled a plaid over his shoulders. “There’s no chance in hell I’ll let a woman sleep on the floor whist I languish on a feath
er mattress.”

  “But—”

  “Och, lass. You promised to follow orders. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.”

  Divana saluted the bed-curtains. “Aye, captain!”

  “And one more thing,” he said, stretching up to his table and turning down the lantern.

  “Hmm?”

  “Remember you’re a lad—and lads do not tempt their captains with wee kisses. Not ever again.”

  Divana rolled to her side. His form was dark and shadowy through the blue moonlight shining in from the windows. “What about the other way around?”

  “Wheesht!”

  Smiling, she dropped to her back and pulled the bedclothes right under her chin. After nights of sleeping in a cramped barrel with rats scurrying about, curling into the downy comfort of Kennan’s mattress was near enough to heavenly. There she was, Divana Campbell, a lass cast out and condemned by her clan, sailing the high seas with Kennan Cameron—the only man she had ever loved.

  Now all she had to do was figure out how to convince him to kiss her again…and again…and again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A southwester filled the sails with chilly air while Kennan stood on the quarterdeck, gazing down at the rugged faces of his crew. They hailed from all walks of life, some from Cameron crofts—those men he’d trust with his life. Though roughly half the rest was composed of the gruff and bedraggled newcomers from Glasgow.

  They stood at attention, their beards full, the craggy squints to their eyes fixed in place by years of sun, sailing, and whisky. Only the passage of time would ferret out the trustworthy on this voyage—though Kennan doubted he’d ever allow the man on the end too near. They called him Ethan. He was shorter than most, thin, and ornery, though during the trials at Achnacarry, he’d proved skilled with a dirk and sword. Perhaps he’d passed Lachie Mor’s jaundiced eye with his fighting prowess. Nonetheless, Ethan was one to watch.

  On the other end, Divana stood beside Runner, who’d been assigned to show her the ropes. The lad had been given instructions not to allow “Davy” out of his sight—though Runner, Lachie Mor, and Mr. MacNeil were privy to Divana’s true identity and sworn to secrecy. The problem? As far as Kennan was concerned, Davy still looked like the redheaded lass who, on the isle of Hyskeir, had twisted his heart around her little finger. No set of breeches or a feathered cap could hide the lassie’s feminine allure.

  Damn it all.

  If anything happened to her, Kennan would never forgive himself.

  And, though this voyage was about revenge and reclaiming that which was rightfully his, he’d do his damnedest to keep her safe—starting with his present address to the crew. “I’m certain many of you have heard we’ve found a stowaway.”

  Dissent rumbled from the ranks, whistled back to attention by the boatswain, Mr. MacNeil. On the deck, the quartermaster gave Divana a shove in the shoulder—blast Lachie’s manhandling. Kennan noted he’d need to have a word with the man posthaste.

  “Though he spirited aboard in a barrel, I ken this lad,” Kennan continued. “His name is Davy Campbell, the youngest son of Laird Alexander Campbell of Ardslignish—”

  “A bloody Campbell?” griped Ethan, elbowing the sailor beside him.

  Kennan gave the man a dead-eyed stare—an expression so fierce, few ever deigned to challenge him. “It is my duty to see to his protection until I’m able to return the lad to his kin. He will fulfill the role of cabin boy and will be taking direction from Runner. But hear me now, and hear me clear, I’ll tolerate no mistreatment. The lad may be a stowaway, but he’s as close as kin to me. If any man aboard has a grievance with him, you’ll bring it to me or your quartermaster first.”

  “Aye, aye!” boomed Lachie Mor.

  “Aye, aye, Captain!” the men shouted in unison.

  “Very well.” Kennan pulled his spyglass from his belt and slapped it against his palm. “We’ve made good headway thus far and I commend you all. Keep your minds and hands on task, and we’ll anchor off Nassau within the month, God and wind willing. Dismissed!”

  Divana flashed a bonny smile and gave him a wave. God’s stones, he’d need to school her on masculine behavior. She ought to be adjusting her crotch and scowling at him. But Lachie Mor thumped the top of her cap and ordered Runner to set her to swabbing the decks.

  After the two moved on, Kennan motioned for the quartermaster to join him on the upper deck.

  “I reckon your chat went well, Captain,” said Lachie, his gap-toothed grin disappearing beneath his dappled gray whiskers.

  “Mayhap. However, I do not care for your rough treatment of our new cabin boy.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lachie checked over his shoulder and moved to the rail. “I ought to be kicking her—er—him up the backside. ’Tis what I’d do with any other young whelp stowaway.”

  “Aye, but he’s nay just anyone. He’s the son of a clan chief. I’ve given you reason enough for leniency.”

  “Bloody hell, did your time on Hyskeir turn ye soft?”

  Kennan leaned in and leveled his gaze with the quartermaster. “I’ll bid you remember your place, sir. Mind you, after I plunged into the sea, I fought off a mob of basking sharks with nothing but my hands and a bloody English pirate’s dull-bladed dagger. Got a nice ring of teeth branded on my thigh to serve as a constant memory. And the woman on Hyskeir? If it weren’t for her, there’d be seagrass sprouting from my corpse about now. So, aye, give the lass—er—lad his due.”

  Lachie Mor scratched his beard. “Bloody women. They’re why I prefer to be a-sea. Wenches are always causing trouble. Especially that one—and I’m not bloody blind. She has eyes for ye, no question in me mind.”

  “Och aye? The woman’s a bloody saint.”

  “And I’d venture to guess you’ve a greater soft spot for her than you’re letting on. Ye’d best watch yourself, Captain.”

  Kennan gave the quartermaster a playful jab with his elbow. “Mind your own affairs, ye onion-eyed varlet.”

  “’Tis exactly what I intend to do—and my affairs concern the orderly running of this ship.”

  “I’m glad ye ken your priorities.” Kennan opened his spyglass and raised it to his eye. “Just have a care. We do not need a weeping cabin boy on our hands.”

  “God forbid.” The old man tottered back down the steps, grumbling under his breath. “I’ll burn in hell afore we have a ship full of weepy-eyed, lad-impersonating women.”

  * * *

  “Go on, just a bit higher,” said Runner as if they weren’t about to fall to their deaths.

  Divana clung to the rigging and glanced downward. Mistake. Her stomach squeezed and turned over—more aptly, it did a flying leap. “But ’tis so far to the deck,” she squeaked, all attempts at sounding like a lad vanishing. “What if a big wave comes and flings us into the sea?”

  “Och, I’ve been keeping watch in the crow’s nest for years and I’ve never been flung. Asides, there’s a rope up there to hold ye in.”

  Cringing, she slowly shifted her gaze to the offending nest. A barrel sawed in half, it reminded her of a gigantic slingshot—one made for people, especially her. “Are ye certain ’tis necessary to have a lookout up there at all times?”

  “Not to worry, Davy,” Runner said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “The captain advised you’re only allowed up the rigging during calm seas.”

  What appeared to be miles away, Kennan stood on the quarterdeck, his posture as rigid as a statue, staring at them—at her. Blast him for watching. Did he not think her capable of climbing up to the crow’s nest? And how was it not preferential treatment to tell Runner not to let her go up there except in calm seas? She steeled her nerves and pulled herself upward.

  “Baltazar,” she said, trying to make her voice deeper and more confident. “What is it you like about keeping watch up here?”

  “You’d best not keep calling me by my Christian name, else someone will guess you’re not a lad.”

  “Well, we cannot ab
ide that.” She cleared her throat, trying for an even deeper tone. “Runner, tell me what you like about the blessed crow’s nest.” There—she practically sounded like a gruff old tar.

  He continued his assent. “No one bothers me when I’m keeping watch.”

  That wasn’t exactly the answer she was expecting. “Do the men heckle you?”

  “Aye, on account of being the youngest.” He hopped over the side of the barrel and offered his hand. “’Tis why they call me Runner. ‘Hey, lad, fetch me a scrap of bread…clean the bilges…empty the pails of p—.’ Ye ken, they saved all the foul jobs for me whilst the crew laughed.”

  After a backward glance to the captain, Divana ignored the offered hand and pulled herself into the nest, queasy stomach and all. “That doesn’t sound fair.”

  “Life aboard ship isn’t always fair.”

  As she looked out, the wits she’d used to pull herself up collapsed into a heap. Saint Columba, she was higher up than she’d ever been in her life—mayhap the wall-walk at Achnacarry was higher, but it wasn’t swaying. She grasped the dangling rope and stared at the round wooden floor beneath her toes. It didn’t seem sturdy in the slightest.

  “W-why did you put up with it?” she managed to croak, trying to continue the conversation.

  “There wasn’t much I could do—the lowest ranked man is given the most unsavory tasks.” He thumped his chest. “But I aim to fix that.”

  Aside from quavering and jolting with every gust of wind, the space was cramped with two people in the nest, not allowing much room for limbs. Divana wrapped her arms around her knees, letting her shoulder press into the lad. “On account of being promoted?”

  “That, and the captain rewards his men for service. If we recapture our fortune, every man will receive his share.”

  “Coin, aye?”

  “Enough to purchase a parcel of land—mayhap a pony or two and a suit of clothes.”

  “’Tis generous of Sir Kennan.”

  “Och, he’s the captain when aboard, ye ken.”

  She dared to peek over the rim. The aforementioned captain was engaged in conversation with Mr. MacNeil, who was pointing to the sails billowing aft.