by Amy Jarecki
Darkness replaced the sun. Lady Anne slipped her hand out from under his, and the dark of the evening took up residence inside him. She was not his to lust after. “May I walk you to your stateroom?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded husky. Had she felt the connection too? Of course not.
Calum offered his arm and that same small, cold hand grasped it. “We’ll arrive at Raasay in the morning.”
“Our destination?”
“Aye.”
“Bran told me.”
Secrets were impossible to keep on a ship. “I will send a letter of ransom to yer husband upon our arrival.” He didn’t like how that sounded—ye are my prisoner until Lord Wharton pays for your release. But that’s how it had to be. If he sailed up the mouth of the River Aln, he would incite yet another war between Scotland and England, and this time his countrymen might side with the enemy.
When they stepped into the corridor, warm air relaxed the tension in his shoulders.
Anne stopped outside her cabin door, breasts straining against her bodice with every breath. “I’ve never met him.”
Calum forced himself to concentrate on her face. “Who?”
“Lord Wharton.”
“What? How?”
“We were wed by proxy. My uncle made the arrangements.”
Ah Jesus. Calum understood the way of highborn marriages, arranged for the trade of lands and riches. “Ye ken he’s old enough to be yer father?”
“He’s three times my age plus one year to be exact. His children are older than I.”
A hundred questions flooded his mind. “Why?” he clipped with shocked disbelief.
Anne nodded as if fully understanding his monosyllabic inquiry. “I’m told the baron fancied me from across Westminster Abbey during the queen’s coronation.”
“No.” She doesn’t even know the bastard. That’s why she wears no ring.
“Yes. My uncle said he kissed my hand, yet so many lords greeted me on that trip to London, I’m at a loss to place him.”
The despair in her lovely eyes twisted around his heart. “Mayhap ye will remember if we playact it.” With a halfcocked grin, Calum reached for her hand. His mouth went dry when her silken skin met the rough pads of his fingertips. Though a grown woman, her fingers were fine and delicate.
When she didn’t pull away, he moistened his lips and bowed. Hovering above her hand, the soft scent of honeysuckle mixed with her—the unmistakable scent of woman now more captivating than it had been on the deck—ignited his insides as if she stood naked before him. Closing his eyes, he touched his lips to the back of her hand and kissed. Anne’s sharp inhale made his skin shiver with gooseflesh. She did not try to pull away but remained so still, her pulse beat a fierce rhythm beneath.
Calum held his lips there longer than necessary. He wanted this moment to linger. He wanted a memory he could cherish long after she was gone. As he straightened, his eyes locked with hers. Her lips parted slightly, almost as if asking him to kiss her mouth, but he knew she wouldn’t want that.
He stood for a moment, not saying a word. She did too.
“Any recollection?” His voice rasped.
“No.” Her voice low, she then blinked as if snapping back to the present. “You mustn’t ever do that again.”
“Forgive me, milady.” Grinning, he opened her door and bowed, though he did not regret her lack of recall.
Anne stepped into her stateroom. Calum could not pull his gaze away until the door closed and blocked the bewilderment reflected in her sapphire eyes. Calum stared at the hardwood door—the same one he’d kicked in five nights ago. What the hell was he doing?
He ground his teeth and headed back to the quarterdeck. He needed the lady out of his life. She was not his to care for. Worst of all, she had wed the enemy.
***
Standing behind the closed door of her stateroom, Anne held up the hand that he’d kissed and brushed it against her cheek. Such a simple gesture—how did he make it so impassioned? She could still feel his lips searing into her flesh. She pressed the hand to her mouth and kissed it—kissed the very spot where his lips had been.
Anne held out her open hand and watched it tremble. How could he inflame her insides and captivate her thoughts? He was a pirate, an outlaw. She closed her fist over her heart. After their argument, she’d avoided him for days, tried to forget him. She nearly had except during the night.
The dreams tortured her. She’d barely slept in the five nights of this voyage. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him—the powerful shoulders, the chiseled features, the penetrating eyes that could turn her insides molten.
Oh how sinful her thoughts had been when she lay in her bed at night. Calum’s infectious smile, his playful banter, and mostly, her dreams fixated on the virile man presiding over the helm of the ship—a figure of command and power. Anne clutched her fists against her stomacher. She should not allow herself to entertain scandalous thoughts of Calum. The Church taught that a person could sin with thoughts alone. She fanned herself. Oh no, she mustn’t allow him to touch her again.
What a precarious situation this had become. Without Hanna to console her, Anne wanted so desperately to be loved. Lord Wharton’s impersonal marriage left her feeling like chattel. The baron had never held a chair for her, never enquired as to how well she’d slept or held her hand and watched the sun set on the horizon. Perhaps he will one day—and be gentle like Calum?
Anne groaned, certain her mind had strayed due to her fear of meeting Lord Wharton—grandfather Wharton. Calum had said he would ransom her. Ransom? Seek payment for her, no less. Was that an act of an honorable man? Undeniably not.
Anne hoped Calum would send word to the baron soon, for she could not bear to remain among these outlaws much longer. Their unsophisticated ways brought out a restlessness she did not know existed within her.
Always the solid daughter in her family, Anne’s priorities were firmly grounded. She must not allow these impulses to overrun her sensibilities. She was a married woman. The reservations she had about her husband must be buried. She had a responsibility to her family to protect her virtue and serve the lord who’d asked for her hand in marriage and expected her to honor him.
Anne rubbed the back of her hand against her palm and wiped away the searing kiss. She would block it from her mind. Calum’s heart could not have possibly inflamed as hers had. He was so adept at courting, he must be well practiced—most likely trifled with thousands of unsuspecting women.
She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. Calum was going to ransom her—he’d get his money and he would move on to the next unsuspecting passenger when he plundered her ship. Anne’s stomach churned when she considered there could be another woman like herself in his future. Would she be married by proxy too?
Anne shook her head. Once the ransom had been paid, she had little doubt Lord Wharton would seek revenge. After all, the baron had been the Sheriff of Cumberland and now maintained order for the Earl of Northumberland. Thomas. The name is so unfamiliar to me.
“Calum.” Anne spoke aloud, the L rolled off her tongue as she hummed the M. She liked the sound of it.
Would Thomas see him hanged? She pictured Calum’s powerful neck swinging in a noose and nearly wretched. A stream of cold sweat slid down her forehead.
Chapter Four
Lord Wharton washed his breakfast down with a draught of cider, feeling giddy for the first time in…well the first time ever. Any day now, the ship should arrive with Lady Anne, his new bride. He rubbed his fingers in a circular pattern across his palm, imagining her young flesh. He had worked hard all his life. He deserved this. Yes, he’d put on a stone or two and his body didn’t respond as quickly. But Lady Anne would grow to accept him. After all, she had been cloistered in her father’s estate. Her uncle had assured him that she knew nothing of men. A welcomed thickness spread across his groin. Having raised a family himself, he was the perfect man to show the sweet virgin a wife’s place.
/> Of course, he would have preferred to take Lady Anne to his estate in Healaugh, but momentarily he was engaged with the Earl of Northumberland as warden of the region. The earl had given him use of the manor on the castle grounds as part of his service. It had been the earl’s idea to marry by proxy and have Anne sail to the River Aln. When she arrived, the Lord Percy would host a feast to honor the Baron of Wharton and his new baroness.
Though the manor was nowhere near as grand as Alnwick Castle, it was solidly built—a fortress in itself, a home in which any baroness would be proud, even the second daughter of an earl.
His manservant, Samuel, leaned down to pick up his tray. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“Leave the ewer.” Thomas looked at him with a twist to his gut. “Any word of the Flying Swan?”
“Not yet, my lord. I could send a messenger.”
“No. The lookout will come when she’s spotted.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Thomas waved the man away with a flick of his wrist and belched. Since he had returned from London five months ago, he’d been absorbed with negotiating the terms of his marriage. He would never forget watching Lady Anne from across the aisle at Westminster Abbey. She stirred a longing deep within, a feeling he’d not experienced since his years as a young man when he courted his first wife, Eleanor. God rest her soul.
Wharton had patiently waited until the crowd dispersed and then introduced himself. Lady Anne had looked past him when he kissed her hand. He expected that. After all, he was nearly three times her age. Young women always think they want to fall in love with a younger, less experienced man. What they need is a learned man, aged by war and time, to guide them through the complexities of life.
He poured one more goblet of cider and gazed out the window. Dora skipped into view carrying a bucket of chicken feed. His tongue shot to the corner of his mouth when the wind picked up the servant’s golden hair from under her white coif. It was the color of Lady Anne’s. Wharton rubbed his hand across his crotch. Dora smelled a bit too strongly of tallow, even when naked, and though she meandered beyond the glass, he could smell it. Perhaps her scent lingered from last night’s interlude.
A rap on his door brought him back to the moment. “Come.”
Samuel stepped inside and presented a missive on a silver platter. “From Captain Fortescue, my lord.”
“Fortescue? It must have been dispatched before the ship sailed. Odd.” He slipped his thumb under the wax seal and read. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow, but the thickness stuck there along with the cider, turning to fire his belly.
He slammed the missive on the table and glared at the weathered face of his servant. “Where is the messenger who brought this?”
“I sent him to the kitchen, my lord.”
“Bring him to me at once, and fetch Master Denton.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The table upended when Wharton pushed away. He growled and kicked the heavy thing aside with his heel. Grinding his back molars against the pain, he paced. His mind raced through the half-dozen people who knew of his marriage. He’d kept it quiet. Had a missive been intercepted? Where was Lady Anne? He’d fled Wharton Hall because of enemies hell bent on destroying him. Now they had pillaged the ship and the only soul not accounted for was his wife?
A young man appeared in the doorway, holding his cap. “You wanted to see me, my lord?”
Thomas whipped around. “You delivered the missive?”
“Yes.”
“How was it handed to you?”
“I am Captain Fortescue’s First Mate. I watched him pen the letter and seal it.”
“Did anyone else read it?”
“No, my lord. Fortescue directed me to deliver it with haste.”
“You were on the ship when it was attacked?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We sailed into a squall. The night was black and the carrack dark. We didn’t see her until she was crossing our bow flying the Jolly Roger.”
“Pirates,” Thomas said, thinking aloud. “Spaniards? Dutch?”
“Scots.”
The baron’s full belly churned, threatening to heave. With a rolling belch, he swallowed. The Scots—his fiercest enemies. “I knew it. Those murdering bastards will never rest. England will not be at peace until every last one of them is dead and their seed is snuffed out forever.”
The boy nodded, his mouth drawn in a frown. Wharton wanted to slam his fist into his young face. “How could you lose my wife? Where is she, damn you?”
He stammered. “My lord?”
“What has Fortescue done to…” He clenched his fists and shook them. “Get. Her. Back?”
“He’s gone to London, sir—reported it to the Royal Navy. Th-the queen is very upset indeed.”
Wharton paced the parlor. Imbeciles. On his third trip past the incompetent first mate, he shoved his finger in the man’s sternum and shouted, “I trusted you and your crew to bring her to me safely. Now all are accounted for except my baroness?”
The young man backed a step. “Yes, my lord.”
Wharton glared at him—the young face of ineptitude. “Get out,” he roared. “Be gone, or you’ll feel the cold steel of my sword.” Wharton grasped the hilt and yanked the cutlass from his scabbard while the man fled.
I should have been there. If I had traveled to Southampton to fetch her, none of this would have happened. I should have never relied on someone else. Scottish barbarians? Only I know how to quash the miserable Scots—Fortescue would have been beat before the battle began.
The lean figure of Master Denton appeared in the passageway. His eyes drifted down to the sword in Wharton’s hand, and he brushed his fingers across his own hilt. “You sent for me, my lord?”
Wharton eyed his henchman and shoved the sword back in its scabbard. Though Master Denton had always been a most loyal and trusted servant, his appearance gave Thomas pause. With hair black as coal framing his gaunt face, Denton looked like an executioner. Wharton half expected him to carry a headsman’s axe. Tall, lanky, the man’s black eyes appeared to have no capacity for sympathy, and that’s how Thomas wanted it. Never had he seen Master Denton look at a woman, or a woman look his way for that matter.
“Scottish pirates plundered Lady Anne’s ship. It appears they have taken her prisoner.” He looked away and lowered his voice. “Or worse.”
“The Scots again?” If Denton had felt any remorse for the baroness he didn’t show it.
“I want you to go to Portsmouth. Find out everything you can. Were there Scots hanging about the pubs before the Flying Swan sailed? What colors did they wear?”
Denton nodded.
Thomas lunged in and jutted his face under Denton’s nose. “I want that pirate captain’s head.”
“Understood.”
“And you can give Fortescue a taste of my dissatisfaction while you’re at it.”
The corner of Denton’s mouth twitched. “I’ll see it done.”
“Good. Leave now. I want word dispatched within the fortnight.”
Wharton stepped to the window and watched Denton trot through the gates on his black steed. If anyone could drudge up information from the back alleyways of a dockyard, it was he.
Sickly dread stabbed Thomas in the gut. He envisioned a pirate with his kilt hiked up around his hips forcing his maiden bride. It blinded him with rage. He wanted to know who this pirate was, damn it. His fists clenched. When I uncover his identity, he will rue the day he was born. And if he defiles my wife, I’ll make the rutting bastard gag on her blood before I carve out his bowels and hang him.
***
Anne clutched the bedclothes under her chin. The air had turned markedly colder on their voyage north. She’d heard about the bone-chilling wind from the North Sea. Now March thirtieth, she expected a bit more warmth, but the gooseflesh on her skin hinted that it might even snow. She shivered.
She wished she could pull u
p her feather duvet and go back to sleep, but that luxury remained behind, still covering her bed at Titchfield House. From the hurried footsteps clamoring above, she could tell that the morning’s work had begun. The anxious voices told her this wasn’t just any morning and curiosity took hold. She threw back the bedclothes and wrapped her woolen dressing gown around her shift.
Footsteps clomped down the corridor followed by a tap on her door. “Time to break yer fast, milady.”
“Come in.”
The tray jostled in Bran’s hands, reflecting his excitement. “We’re rounding Trotternish on the Isle of Skye. We’ll see Rona and then Raasay within the hour.”
Anne settled her hand on the boy’s brown curls. He reminded her of her brother, Henry, but there was a world of difference between the two. Henry had succeeded her father as Earl of Southampton, and Bran stood on gawky legs in a moth-eaten kilt, his face caked with dirt and sea salt. He looked happy as a puppy, but he wasn’t wearing his sling. “How is your arm?”
He stretched out his hand and jiggled his fingers. “All healed, milady. Yer ointment fixed me up like new.”
“I still want you to be careful for at least another week.” Anne pushed up his sleeve and examined his arm for bruising. The swelling had gone down and the purple was fading into an ugly yellow—an unattractive, but sure sign of recovery. “Are you excited to return home?”
“Aye, milady. It’s been a harsh winter and the clan’s starving.” He straightened the plaid across his shoulder and looked up with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I cannot wait to see the look on me ma’s face when she sees the Flying Swan and her cargo.”
Anne wanted to share in Bran’s excitement, but these were stolen goods. Arriving in Raasay filled her with the same trepidation as the thought of arriving at Alnwick. What would Calum do with her once they arrived? Would she be safe? Would they take her trunks and divvy out her clothing amongst the heathens?
After she’d eaten and dressed in her most modest gown—a woolen frock that showed as little cleavage as possible, she pulled a cloak around her shoulders and ventured out to the main deck. The brisk wind cut through her multiple layers of clothing, took hold of her silk veil and snatched the coronet off her head. With a squeal, she chased after it. The headpiece was amongst her favorite and seemed to grow a mind of its own, spiraling across the deck like a blue rogue sail.