Rebel Kiss: A Historical Romance Novel (Scottish Rebels Book 1)

by Stone, Jenna

  Rebel Kiss

  A Historical Romance

  By: Jenna Stone

  Chapter One

  North American Coast, July 23, 1746

  Twenty-four was certainly not too young to die. The problem was that Rowan Murray had never intended to die a virgin.

  As his life drew to a sure and unexpected end, Rowan found himself regretting his noble virtues. Water rushed below the deck of the Mary Catherine plastering Rowan’s wet clothing to his body. The ship flailed in the storm, putting up her final defenses before succumbing to the depths of the Atlantic. Rowan’s muscles strained against the shackles that bound him to the wall of the ship.

  I am going to die.

  He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, wishing for his last thoughts to be pure ones, and not those of lusts that had been unacted upon.

  “Lord have mercy! We’re all goin’ tae die!” bellowed the frantic voice at the top of the stairs.

  Rowan squinted, wiping away the salty water that splattered his face. He could make out the form of a sailor standing at the top of the stairs, his thin gray hair was plastered to his face from the combination of the whipping wind and the frothing, angry sea. The man braced himself in the doorway that led below decks to the cargo compartment of the ship. His eyes darted guiltily between the crashing waves and the prisoners kept in the dark belly of the ship.

  The sailor gritted his teeth together, his conscience having temporarily edged out his instinct to survive. He struggled down the stairs towards the prisoners. “Get ye on deck sae that ye can jump overboard.”

  “We bloody canna move!” Rowan yelled back over the thundering of the sea. “They’ve shackled us tae the side of the ship. Do ye have keys?” Rowan’s heart began beating a small drum of hope, thundering in his chest at the mere prospect of a chance at survival.

  The ship rolled heavily from side-to-side in the storm. Buckets of rain gushed down the open stairwell into the cargo hold of the ship, soaking the prisoners to the bone. Rowan knew that if they were not unshackled now they would drown for sure, helpless as the ship was torn apart in the storm.

  “Aye, I’ve got the keys. Spose’ it won’t hurt tae let ye have a fightin’ chance,” the man said as he braced himself in the staircase and ambled down further into the cargo hold. He fumbled with a large iron key ring, eyes darting back to the staircase and the water that was crashing down the wooden steps.

  “Him first,” Rowan insisted, pointing his shackled wrists at his younger brother Malcolm.

  Rowan noticed the effort that Malcolm was putting into remaining composed despite the perils of their present situation. Malcolm’s jaw was set in a hard line. His teeth were clenched tightly together and only the slight quivering of his chin betrayed him. The boy was terrified.

  Caught somewhere between a boy and a man, Malcolm remained awkward and gangly. Rowan felt a surge of protectiveness as he looked upon Malcolm. The boy looked so young with his shortly cropped black hair and freckled skin. Rowan said a silent prayer of protection for his brother. Malcolm did not deserve to die today.

  Please Lord, let him make it. Give him a chance to survive.

  Malcolm’s eyes had grown wild with fear. He held his wrists up so that the sailor could fit the key into his shackles. Water poured into the cargo hold, now waist deep with its icy chill. The ship creaked and rolled, protesting loudly as wave after wave crashed into her side. The thick boards of the hull were on the verge of cracking from the surge of the storm.

  Spouting a continuous stream of filthy words, their unlikely savior knit his eyebrows together in concentration against the swaying of the ship as he struggled to fit the key into the lock of Malcolm’s shackles. His skin was like leather, tanned and hardened from too many hours spent in the sun. A satisfying click ensued, popping the iron cuff from the boy’s right wrist. The rolling of the ship made it difficult for the man to fit the key into the cuff binding Malcolm’s left wrist. He braced himself against the hull, cursing under his breath as he forced the key into the lock. The second shackle released reluctantly and fell with a heavy clank against the wall of the ship.

  Malcolm jumped away from the wall. He struggled to find his balance with the grace of a newborn foal. He rubbed his wrists experimentally, noting gingerly that they had been chaffed raw from weeks of restraint.

  “Hurry, man! Unlock them!” Malcolm exclaimed, desperate to have his brothers freed so that they might also have a chance at survival.

  “Do it yerself!” the sailor huffed impatiently as he thrust the key ring into Malcolm’s trembling hands and bolted up the stairs. “It’s every man for himself now!” he shouted over his shoulder as he retreated above deck. “The ship’s coming apart around us!”

  “We’ve time yet. Doona panic,” Rowan spoke calmly. His eyes searched Malcolm’s face and he forced a half-smile, seeking to reassure his little brother as he raised his shackled wrists. “Breathe, Malcolm,” he instructed, nodding in approval as Malcolm collected himself and took a deep breath. The water was rising quickly in the cargo hold, coming almost to Rowan’s chest.

  Malcolm fought to maintain his balance as the ship bucked sharply to the left. Another gush of water crashed down the stairwell dousing the prisoners with salty cold water. Malcolm slipped on the cascade of water and fell to his knees, clinging to the keys for dear life. The ship righted itself, sending a surge of deep water crashing over Malcolm. He fought to stand up, splashing and sputtering his way back to Rowan.

  Rowan closed his eyes and said a prayer for patience. The ship was going down. If Malcolm was unable to unlock their restraints soon, Rowan would command his little brother to leave without them so that he might save himself.

  “Bloody hell!” Malcolm cursed as he righted himself, trying to brace his body against the wall between his brothers.

  “Watch yer mouth,” scolded Quinn, wet chestnut hair plastered to his face. “Ye can do this. Take yer time. Get Rowan first,” Quinn coached, watching his youngest brother fumble with the key ring.

  Rowan again held up his wrists, his eyes shifting warily towards Quinn. Malcolm forced the key into the shackle binding Rowan’s left wrist.

  “Stop shaking,” Rowan said calmly, his eyes locking with Malcolm’s.

  “I canna,” Malcolm said, his voice wavering as he fumbled with the lock.

  “Ye can,” Rowan assured the boy.

  The trembling of Malcolm’s hands subsided and the lock sprung open, causing the metal cuff to splash into the rising salt water as it fell slack by Rowan’s side.

  “Well done,” Rowan said hurriedly as he grabbed the keys from Malcolm. “Ye may have just saved us, brother,” he said hopefully as he shot Malcolm the hint of a smile.

  The boy stepped aside, relieved that Rowan had taken charge.

  Rowan struggled to unlock his right wrist. The lock was stuck, crusted heavily with a thick layer of rust from many years at sea. Rowan forced the key desperately into the lock, turning it slightly one way and then the other, willing himself not to panic. The key begrudgingly turned against the rust and after a moment of struggling, the lock finally gave way.

  The ship lurched to the right, causing Rowan and Malcolm to be thrown hard against the opposite wall of the hull. Water spilled into the hold, now rising up to Rowan’s chest. The ship now lay almost completely on her side.

  The Mary Catherine was going under.

  Quinn was now suspended up in the air, his shackles hanging from the wall that was now the ceiling.

  “Go without me!” Quinn screamed madly at his brothers. “Ye canna save me, but save yer
selves!”

  “We’re not leaving ye!” Rowan bellowed against the roar of the ocean as he fought to right himself in the water. Water poured freely below the deck, filling the hold with terrifying speed. Rowan’s fist clenched the precious keys. He held them above his head, protecting them from the angry motions of the sinking ship. Watching Quinn dangle helplessly above him still shackled to the wall of the ship forced bile to rise in Rowan’s throat. If there was one thing that Rowan hated, it was being helpless.

  A wave hit the side of the ship with such force that the timbers of the hull threatened to give way, creaking and splintering under the weight of the blow. The ship rocked back into an upright position, a final act of refusal before it would be claimed by the sea.

  Rowan rushed towards Quinn and scrambled to fit the iron key into the shackle that tethered his brother to the ship. His hand shook, making it difficult to fit the rusted key into the lock. His powerful legs were braced apart and his body fought with every muscle fiber to remain anchored to the slippery floor. The right shackle popped free just as another wave crashed down the stairs, knocking the key ring to the floor.

  Rowan’s heart sank as he tried in vain to reclaim his grip on the keys, only to watch them slide into the watery depths.

  Malcolm came flying though the air from behind Rowan, diving towards the keys. “Got ‘em!” he shouted, triumphantly raising the keys above his head as he staggered towards Quinn, boyish smile lingering proudly on his face.

  The ship lurched suddenly, throwing Rowan and Malcolm against the wall opposite from Quinn. The sound of splintering wood filled the hull. This was it. The ship was doomed now, breaking apart as it succumbed to the pummeling of the relentless waves.

  “Leave me!” Quinn shouted, challenging Rowan to disobey him with all of the authority that he could muster. He glared at his younger brother with steely gray eyes. “Take Malcolm and go now while ye still can!”

  Quinn wanted to die.

  “She wouldna want this for ye, brother,” Rowan said, brushing aside the wet chestnut hair that was plastered to his face. “She’d want ye tae fight. She’d want ye tae live,” Rowan said, green eyes intense as he challenged his older brother. Rowan regained his balance and bridged the distance between them, never breaking eye contact with Quinn.

  “I want tae die. Let me go tae be with her,” Quinn sobbed as he slapped away the key that Malcolm worked to fit into his shackle. “Go! Save Malcolm!” Quinn ordered, body racked with emotion.

  “I’ll bloody knock ye out and jump overboard with ye, but I’m not leavin’ ye here, Quinn!” Rowan challenged as he held his brother’s free arm and motioned for Malcolm to unlock Quinn’s other wrist. Quinn strained against Rowan’s grip, his muscles tense and sinewy from the force of his revolt.

  Malcolm struggled to fit the key into the lock and forced the key to turn, popping open the lock. Rowan jerked Quinn’s arm and motioned towards the stairs, but Quinn stood fast, steely gaze intent on challenging his younger brother. Rowan met his brother’s stare with ferocious intensity, eyebrows knit together over piercing green eyes.

  Accepting his defeat, Quinn followed his brothers up the stairs and into the mouth of the storm, knowing that if he didn’t Rowan would knock him out at carry him.

  ..ooOoo..

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Anna Stanton stood as still as a statue, blonde hair plaited back in a simple braid that rested on the rough fabric of her gray woolen dress. She stood straight and tall against the cold flagstones by the window, seeking to mold her body into the ancient stones of her family home. Thin but agile fingers reached out ever so slowly to push aside the heavy damask draperies. Ever so cautiously her fingers drew back the fabric. Anna tilted her head to peek through the opening in the draperies. Her breath was tight in her chest as she saw yet another collector on her doorstep.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The sizable fist of man dressed in full military regalia pounded against the heavy wooden door of Stanton Place. “I know you’re in there!” his voice boomed as he continued to beat on the door. “I’ll be back this afternoon with the magistrate if you do not open the door right this instant!”

  Anna let the draperies fall back into place and exhaled slowly, leaning her head back against the cool stones.

  “Damned collectors,” she whispered into the silence of the foyer, hanging her head in defeat.

  This is not how my life was supposed to have turned out.

  Straightening her spine, Anna reluctantly left her hiding place and walked briskly towards the door. She unlatched the bolt and slid the heavy guard bar out of the way, then pulled with all of her might to swing the massive door open. The hinges creaked loudly, needing oiled desperately.

  Anna grumbled to herself. Watching Stanton Place, her once beautiful home, fall into a state of disrepair tore at the strings of her heart. The downward spiral of her mother’s health and her family’s financial ruin were almost more than she could bear.

  Pulling the last shreds of her tattered pride around her and squaring her shoulders for battle, Anna faked a smile as she opened the door.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked sweetly, forcing a smile in an effort to hide her annoyance as she greeted the bill collector standing in the doorway.

  “Indeed I am hoping that you may be able to,” said the man. He was bedecked in a red velvet jacket heavy with medals and military honors. The coat buttoned at his waist, the single button straining to cover a rather large pot belly.

  The man’s pale blue eyes looked inquisitively at Anna, causing her to glance away. His eyes made her suddenly uncomfortable and she felt a blush rise up across her face. His face was punctuated with an awkward mustache, waxed at the ends in a manner to make it curl up unnaturally.

  “Are you Miss Stanton?” the man inquired, seeming to already know the answer to his question as he toyed with the golden chain of his pocket watch. The tedium of exchanging forced niceties played openly across his face.

  “Yes, Sir,” Anna said, regaining her composure as he spoke her name.

  Anna felt a sudden pang of longing for the wait staff that had been let go more than a year ago. No wellborn lady should be answering the door like a common butler. Despite her financial ruin, Anna still held an air of pride and tradition close to her heart when the Stanton name was spoken.

  “Murdock’s the name, Colonel Meriwether Murdock. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, smiling stoutly beneath the awkward mustache as he extended his hand towards Anna.

  Anna extended her hand out of habit, years of training made this motion automatic. Her fingers were quickly enveloped in Colonel Murdock’s grasp and he placed a kiss on the top of her knuckles. His mustache felt surprisingly scratchy on her skin, causing Anna to jerk back unexpectedly from his touch.

  “How may I help you, Colonel Murdock?” Anna asked tersely, unconsciously wiping the back of her hand on the fabric of her skirt.

  “I’ve a proposition for you, Miss Stanton. I understand that your family has come across, shall we say… difficult times?” Murdock said coolly, testing the waters with his question. His pale blue eyes watched Anna for a reaction. To his disappointment, he discovered the young lady was most difficult to read. Her face was like stone as she waited for him to speak further.

  Colonel Murdock knew that the Stanton family was financially ruined. In fact, all of London knew of the scandal surrounding the ruin of Norman Stanton. Stanton had squandered generations of riches on gambling debts and mistresses, leaving Anna and her mother nearly destitute. Murdock’s informants had enlightened him to the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Norman Stanton’s only daughter was proud, headstrong and determined to save her family’s name.

  Which is exactly why Colonel Murdock had chosen Miss Anna Stanton.

  She was perfect.

  She was perfect from her fine-boned figure to her golden hair. In fact, she was just what he needed. The excitement of finally seeing Anna Stanton with his own eyes after passing weeks making
the inquiries that had led him to her door was enough to cause butterflies of giddy excitement to flutter in Murdock’s stomach.

  She was absolutely, positively perfect.

  “If you are here to collect on my father’s debts, you know damn well that there is nothing left to collect!” Anna said defiantly, suddenly angered by the vile man standing on her door step. Meriwether Murdock was the most recent in a long stream of collectors, the likes of which Anna had been burdened with since her father’s untimely death.

  “On the contrary, Miss Stanton,” Murdock retorted with a sly smile. “What if I offered you a solution? A solution that would fix all of this…” Murdock offered, eyebrows arched in enticement as he looked past Anna and into the shambles of her formerly well-furnished, prestigious home.

  Anna was suddenly self conscious. She edged the door closed a bit more. But her futile action had been too late. Anna had watched Murdock’s eyes scan the bare flagstone walls and the empty foyer of Stanton Place. Her pride stung as she remembered the luxurious tapestries that had hung on the walls of Stanton Place and the imported furniture that had filled its rooms.

  It wasn’t that she had particularly loved any of these fine things. In fact it wasn’t that at all. Anna knew that she could live quite happily without any of the paintings, tapestries or hand-carved furniture that had adorned the Stanton Place of her youth. The problem was that her mother needed these things. As each of her prized possessions were sold at auction or carried away by eager neighbors, Anna had watched a little more of the life drain out of her dear mother. The ruin of Stanton Place was killing Claire Stanton, piece by piece.

  “Have you ever considered traveling to the New World, Miss Stanton?” Murdock asked his loaded question, eyes shimmering with anticipation.

  “No, I have not, Colonel Murdock,” Anna said with annoyance, parlaying Murdock with her curt words. Anna was quickly growing impatient with Murdock’s vague questions. Her annoyance was evident as she folded her arms across her chest and took a defensive stance in the doorway of her home.