The Warrior

by Greyson, Maeve

  “Give me yer guns.” Tilda no longer cared. She held out her hand. “Both pistols. Now.” All she knew was she wished to punish the lot of them for all they had cost her.

  “Nay.” Tait waved her aside, his scowl fixed on the rowdy group being quite effectively herded toward a long series of huts along the beach.

  Narrow docks ran out from the beach. Barges tied to them waited to carry goods out to the galleons. The huts warehoused barrels of rum. “I’ve watched those three since we arrived yesterday. The Moor never drinks anything other than honeyed water, and the other two paced themselves, biding their drinks careful with food and water.”

  “We are finished here except for seeking revenge.” Tilda yanked her arm out of his grasp. “Give me yer pistols so I might avenge my husband’s death.”

  “Forgive me, wee cousin, but I may have erred in telling ye the rumor so soon.” Tait gave her an apologetic glance, then nodded toward the men weaving their way down to the docks. “I believe Captain James to be a liar. Look at those two men. They’re nay like the others.”

  “I refuse to hope anymore.” Tilda dove forward and yanked Tait’s pistols out of his belt. “Hope does nothing but break yer heart.”

  “The man with the eyepatch. The way he’s holding his arm around that whore.” Tait twisted both pistols out of Tilda’s hands and held them up out of her reach. “Look at that man. Does he no’ remind ye of Duncan? Look at the set of his shoulders, cousin. The way he walks. Is that man no’ yer husband?” Tait jabbed a pistol in the man’s direction. “I wish ta hell he’d lose that hat, then we might could tell for sure.”

  Tait wouldn’t hallucinate about a man being Duncan. Dare she hope? Dare she risk her poor weary heart yet again? Blinking through her tears, Tilda sniffed and squinted her eyes. She edged along the perimeter of the clearing, following the man with her gaze. “Come here, Tait,” she ordered without taking her eyes off the group of men nearly to the rum huts.

  “Aye?”

  Tilda wadded up her fist and hit him in the mouth.

  “Dammit, Tilda!” Tait pressed his fingers to the split in his lap. “What the hell did ye do that for?”

  “For telling me my husband was dead and ripping twenty years off my life, ye fool eedjit! And then for filling me with hope again. So help me, Tait, if ye break my heart again, I’ll kick ye in the bollocks like I did when we were wee ones.” She grabbed his pistols back and jabbed them toward the men on the beach. “Challenge that man for the whore. Find out if it’s Duncan or just our minds playing cruel tricks.” Doing her best to calm her pounding heart, she waved the guns toward the beach again. Some of the men, staggering under the weight of the rum barrels on their backs, were already headed toward the dock. “I’ll head to the barge and see that the rum is loaded properly and taken to the Seafire.” A deadly cold determination filled her. “If they’ve cost me my husband, then by God Almighty, I’ll cost them a full cargo of rum and then some.”

  “And if it is Duncan and Alasdair?” Tait moved aside a palm frond, following the men’s movements around the huts.

  “As amicable and drunk as the group appears to be, it should be easy enough to slip them away.”

  “The Moor is not drunk, and from what those from the Scorpion say, the man is nay a fool either.” Tait drew his short sword and dagger. “And Captain James himself is among them as well. Apparently, he possesses no trust of his own men.”

  “Both the Moor and the captain are mere men. All men bleed and die.” Tilda held out one of the pistols. “Take one of the pistols, and give me one of yer daggers. My knife throwing improved whilst we were at sea.” She wouldn’t mention she had her own pair of pistols tucked into her belt at the small of her back beneath her coat.

  “Ye’re a fierce, ruthless woman, Tilda Mackenzie, and I’m more than a little proud to call ye kin.” Tait grinned as he shoved the palm fronds aside to leave.

  “Tilda MacCoinnich,” she corrected. She pressed a fist to her heart and stared down at her middle. “Hold fast, my little one, and dinna ye dare leave me. We must save yer da.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I thought ye planned to oversee the barge once it was nearly loaded?” Alasdair asked with a nod toward the docks.

  Duncan squinted across the moonlit beach at the lone figure standing at the head of the barge, guiding the drunken fools loading the barrels with a stern pointing of a pistol to the appropriate sections of the vessel. “Be that a MacDonald or a Scorpion crewman?” If an armed sober man watched the barge, they would have to make adjustments to their plans.

  “And I thought ye said ye wanted to bend me over the barrels? Ye already paid me. What’s the matter, love? Changed yer mind?” The woman from the pub hugged herself to Duncan’s back and wrapped a leg around his thigh.

  “I paid ye to go away—not to bend ye over a barrel.” Duncan grabbed the woman by the wrist and handed her to Alasdair. “Do something with this, aye? And be quick about it. The barge nearly be full, and our time nears.”

  Alasdair took hold of the woman and thrust her into the arms of a MacDonald so sotted the man could barely stand upright much less carry a keg of rum. “Here’s yer fine man, love.” Taking hold of their shoulders, he steered the two of them to a corner and gave them a push. They fell to the floor in each other’s arms and passed out.

  Duncan touched the brim of his hat. “Thank ye, cousin.” He strode closer to the water’s edge and studied the man directing the loading of the barge.

  “How much longer, Mr. Sullivan?”

  Strom’s use of his assumed name warned Duncan that MacDonald ears, possibly sober MacDonald ears, could be about. Gaze still locked on the barge, Duncan chose his words with care. “In for a penny, in for a pound, Mr. Strom. Our goal is a full hold, aye?”

  “I agree, Mr. Sullivan, but have you failed to notice the ship anchored on the other side of the bay?” Mr. Strom turned him to view the area to the right of the docks, toward a vessel anchored at the farthest point of the cove, just inside the curve of the island.

  The Seafire. Tait’s ship. Her colors might be indiscernible in the half-light of the moonlit night, but Duncan would recognize that elaborate figurehead anywhere. A busty, voluptuous woman with flaming locks of hair as her only raiment. But the more pertinent information to the current plan was did Strom recognize the ship?

  “Tait Mackenzie,” Strom said. “A man not to underestimate.”

  Duncan had to play this just right. He preferred to avoid a confrontation with Strom, the captain, or any other of the Scorpion who might be sober enough to fight. He nay wished to hurt any of the men, but he would if need be. The Seafire’s presence was a gift from God. Safe and sure passage back to his Tilda. Duncan smiled. He’d never been one to waste a gift from God. “I know Tait Mackenzie well enough. Have ye seen him?”

  “I spoke with the man earlier today,” Captain James said as he joined them on the beach. “Confirmed yer deaths to him.”

  Alasdair gave Duncan a hard look, a warning look. Duncan read his meaning with ease. Two men against two men, and being several feet away from the rum huts, they couldn’t ask for a better opportunity to relieve themselves of their two captors.

  Captain James pulled his pistol and aimed it at Alasdair’s chest. “I promised I’d kill ye both if ye crossed me.”

  Before either Duncan or Alasdair could react, Strom spun about and drove his dagger hilt deep up beneath the captain’s jaw. The pistol dropped to the sand with a quiet thud, and Captain James followed. Strom pulled his dagger free, wiped the man’s blood off the blade, and sheathed it. Lifting his chin, he leveled a hate-filled glare on Duncan. “Never again will I answer to any man, especially not a man such as that.” He took a step forward, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. “But I will offer my allegiance to a moral man who has always treated me as an equal.”

  Strom’s actions surprised Duncan. He wouldn’t question the man about his reasons. Those reasons were his own. But he would offer the ma
n his friendship and a place at his side—for whatever that was worth. Duncan held out his hand. “Will ye shake my hand now, Mr. Strom?”

  Strom took hold of him by the forearm, bumped his shoulder hard against his, then stepped back, still holding tight to Duncan’s arm. “Yer plan, Mr. MacCoinnich?”

  Duncan scrubbed his fingers through his beard as he studied the last of the barrels going into the barge. “A new plan, I think. Seize the Scorpion and join forces with the Seafire. The MacDonald galleon wouldna dare challenge the guns of two ships.” He motioned toward the barge. “We’ll split the cargo between the ships to help their speed.” Turning to Strom, he pointed a pistol at the Scorpion. “Think ye Mr. Boydson and the crew will follow ye?”

  “Follow me?”

  “Aye, Mr. Strom. Ye’re a more qualified captain than I.” Duncan waved both Strom and Alasdair forward. “Come. We shall convince that man on the docks as to where the barge should go, and then we shall find Tait.” Duncan laughed, his heart lighter than it had been in quite a while. “I feel sure a half load of rum will convince the man to grant me passage back to Scotland.”

  “That man is not from the Scorpion or the MacDonald ship,” Strom said as they strode down the planks of the long narrow dock. He drew his pistol. “None of either crew bothers to dress with such formality.”

  Duncan slowed, then came to a dead stop. Alasdair and Strom stopped beside him, scowling at him as though they thought him mad.

  He lifted his eye patch, blinked hard, and stared at the man standing at the front of the barge, perched atop a stack of crates, one hand grasping the gunwale. “Tilda,” he whispered.

  “What?” Alasdair asked.

  “What did he say?” Strom echoed.

  “Hold yer fire and holster yer guns.” Duncan surged forward, breaking into a run. He leaped onto the side of the barge and strode with purpose, coming up short when the woman dressed as a man, the love of his life and his heart’s desire, pulled both pistols and aimed them dead at his chest.

  “Halt or die,” she ordered in a deep voice that made him want to laugh, but he feared if he did, she’d shoot him.

  Realizing his appearance might be part of the problem, he removed his hat and eye patch as he eased a step closer. The beard he couldn’t change, but he could do one better. In a soft, lilting voice, he sang the lullaby he had once hummed to her back in that stable that seemed so far away and so very long ago:

  Dinna weep, my child, my fairest one.

  Dinna weep o’er little or plentee.

  Ye’re in my arms and in my heart.

  I’ll see ye want for nothing.

  In my arms and in my heart.

  I’ll see ye want for nothing.

  Ye’ll always be my dearest love.

  For all eternitee.

  Tilda’s pistols sagged as did her jaw. Climbing down from the stack of crates, she took a few steps toward him, then stopped. “They claimed ye dead,” she whispered. “Said ye died in a rotted hole.”

  “I felt dead until this verra moment, love. The sight of ye has set my heart to beating once again.” He held open his arms.

  Tilda slammed into him, holding him so tight her pistols dug into his back. She buried her face in his chest, saying something, a long sobbing something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand her. And he didn’t care. All that mattered was that, once again, she was in his arms.

  “Apparently, he knows this man well,” Strom remarked from close behind.

  Duncan turned, holding Tilda tight as he moved her with him. “Mr. Strom, allow me to introduce ye to my fierce, courageous, lovely wife, Tilda.”

  “Well done!” Alasdair said.

  Strom’s thick dark brows arched to his hairline. With a regal nod, he pressed a clenched hand to his chest and bowed. “It is my honor to meet you, Mrs. MacCoinnich.”

  Sniffing against her tears, Tilda replied with a smile and a dip of her chin. “Pleased I am to meet ye as well, sir, as long as ye are here to help rather than hinder my husband’s escape. I dinna wish to shoot ye.”

  “I also prefer that you do not shoot me.” Strom cast a glance back at the beach. “However, I feel it would be most prudent for us to be on our way with due haste.”

  “Aye.” Duncan said as he gave Tilda’s hand a squeeze. “We shall have a proper kiss once we’re safe, but I dinna wish to risk yer disguise any more than I already have.” He waved Strom and Alasdair forward. “Aboard with ye men. Help me get her to the Scorpion.”

  “Nay!” Tilda held up a hand. “This cargo goes to the Seafire.”

  “Half to the Seafire. Half to the Scorpion, love. I’d rather both ships ride high in the water for speed to avoid MacDonald cannon fire if at all possible.” Duncan prayed Tilda wouldn’t argue. They nary had the time.

  The hard, fast thumping of footsteps on the docks jerked his attention around. A welcomed surge of relief crashed through him. “Tait! Come aboard, man!”

  Tait jumped aboard the barge, then shoved it away from the dock. Striding down the length of the boat, he took hold of Duncan’s forearm and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “I knew it was ye. I could tell by the way ye walked.” His eyes narrowed. “Why are we headed to the Scorpion?”

  “Captain Strom would see half this cargo put into his hold, then he’s willing to offer his guns as cover for us whilst we stow the rest in the Seafire.” Duncan pulled Tilda back against his side. He couldn’t bear not touching her. “As soon as the MacDonalds sober up and see what we’ve been about, ’twill be hell to pay, ye ken?”

  Tait grinned. “Aye—let the demons come. We’ll pay hell’s bill with MacDonald souls.” He turned and gave Strom a polite nod. “Captain Strom, is it?” He held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet ye, sir. Might I offer yerself and yer ship a place in my fleet?”

  Strom bowed, then shook Tait’s hand. “I thank you mightily, sir, but I am proud to be the first ship in Mr. MacCoinnich’s fleet, or should I say, Devil Sullivan’s.”

  Tait responded with an approving nod, then turned a troubled scowl on Duncan. “Ye know ye canna return to Scotland. Not as long as Fennella Mackenzie lives. She’ll have the English and the MacDonalds hounding yer arse from now to Kingdom Come. She’ll not be satisfied until ye’re dead, and she’s spit upon yer body.” His worried look shifted to Tilda as the bargemen used their long poles to shove the vessel across the bay toward the Scorpion. “She’d just as soon see ye both dead.”

  Deep in his heart, Duncan knew Tait spoke the truth. Even though many thought Duncan MacCoinnich dead, if he dared return to Scotland, the cycle of Fennella’s cruel, devious plots would start anew until either time or his mercenary skills managed to put the woman in her grave.

  “Aye, but Devil Fraser Sullivan, fearless pirate and privateer, the sly scourge of the sea could start a new life among these islands. Could he not?” Alasdair asked. “At least until that bitch and her brother are dead.”

  “Perhaps so. Safety might be found this far south. My cove would nay be a wise choice. Fennella’s spies could attempt a coup there as well.” Tait nodded at Mr. Strom. “Would ye be agreeable to charting a course for yer ship to the Archipelago of El Perdido, Mr. Strom?”

  “Hold fast now.” Duncan raised his hand. He’d be damned if he allowed these men to plan his life for him. Aye, he agreed he couldn’t go back to Scotland until Fennella was dead. And now that Tilda was back at his side, he didn’t give a rat’s arse where they lived, but Tilda needed to have a say in where they settled.

  The barge thumped against the side of the Scorpion before he could ask.

  “Mr. Boydson!” Strom shouted.

  “Aye, Mr. Strom?” Boydson’s grizzled head popped over the gunwale, peering down at them.

  “Captain James is dead, and I lay claim to this ship. Any not willing to follow my command are welcome to jump overboard now.” Mr. Strom stared up at the man, arms crossed, stance wide, daring the men of the ship to challenge him.

  “Is that the rum,
Captain Strom?” Boydson asked as though it were the most natural thing in the world for Mr. Strom to take command.

  “Yes, Mr. Boydson. Send down the nets and the men. Half this cargo goes in our hold. Half goes in the Seafire. We are no longer in the employ of Archipelago Spice Company. Our allegiance now lies with Devil Fraser Sullivan. We shall be the first of his fleet.” Mr. Strom strode forward and easily scaled the ropes lowered from the Scorpion. Once over the gunwale, he turned and lifted his hand. “Once loaded, we shall pull anchor and join the Seafire. Agreed, Captain Sullivan?”

  “Agreed, Captain Strom, and I thank ye.” Duncan lowered himself to the bench beside Tilda and took hold of both her hands. “Can ye bear making our home so far away from all we’ve ever known or loved?”

  “I can bear anything as long as I’m with ye.” Tilda reached up and combed her fingers through his beard. “I’ve torn ye from yer beloved Scotland, love. Can ye ever forgive me?”

  “Ahoy! MacDonald ship sending a wherry our way,” interrupted a booming call from the bow of the Scorpion.

  “Arms ready,” Captain Strom ordered. “Fire as soon as they draw close, and get those barrels loaded so the barge can shove off and be on its way.”

  Duncan slid Tilda off the bench and lowered her to the floor of the barge. “Stay down, aye? I dinna want ye shot when I’ve just now reunited with ye.”

  “That’s half the cargo in the nets. Heave it up, boys!” shouted Tait.

  As soon as the net was clear of the side of the barge, the bargemen shoved away and headed toward the Seafire.

  Gunfire sounded, and white puffs of smoke filled the air above the wherry bearing down upon them.

  Cannon boomed, and the wherry exploded into a cloud of debris.

  “Man of few words that Captain Strom. I like him,” Tait commented.

  “Aye,” Duncan agreed, but alarm filled him as chains rattling from the MacDonald galleon across the way warned him the great ship was pulling anchor. “They’ll be returning fire as soon as they’re in position.” He rose to his feet, grabbed an extra barge pole, and heaved into it, shoving the vessel along faster across the bay.