Once Upon a Pirate: Sixteen Swashbuckling Historical Romances

by Merry Farmer

  “Were the cause worthy,” she whispered, proving she was remembering the same.

  He slowly nodded, his palm moving to cup her cheek. “The cause is worthy. We do this for Robert and Elizabeth.”

  “And Scotland.”

  “And Scotland,” he agreed.

  She smiled at him, and he knew she’d do what was necessary, and would come through it the same woman he loved. Mayhap she’d have the opportunity to execute John MacDonald, or maybe Liam would. Mayhap it’d be Tav, or one of the other MacLeod pirates.

  Either way, the man would be punished for his treason, and Robert’s shaky kingdom wouldn’t wobble because of his death.

  Behind them, a cry went up, and both Liam and Char whirled toward the other boat. It was closer now, the men onboard obviously preparing for battle.

  But there was no way they’d match the Black Banner.

  The two of them tucked in the length of scarf hiding their features and unsheathed their swords in tandem.

  “Beware the black,” Liam whispered.

  She echoed the motto, louder, and when the men behind them joined in, she brandished her blade at the enemy.

  As their birlinn crashed into the MacDonald ship, Liam and Char jumped together into the battle.

  “Beware the black!”

  One year later

  Letter, letter…transcript, letter...

  Where in damnation is that report?

  Charlotte shuffled through the documents on her desk, wondering if she should’ve allowed Liam to have that cubby system built for her after all. She’d always claimed it was easier to find things if she could see and touch them, but this was—

  Aha!

  Crowing triumphantly, she pulled Melisende’s report out from under a letter to the Queen. In her role as the Queen’s confidante and spy-mistress, Charlotte intercepted much of Her Majesty’s correspondence, or at least read it after the fact. But this report of recent brigand activity on the roads north of the city, was what she’d been looking for.

  And even more interesting, was the curt addendum scribbled at the bottom in Courtney’s rough hand: Three ded. Five wunded. Will track.

  Charlotte insisted all of her agents—Angels, as the Queen had named them—know how to read and write. Courtney’s upbringing meant she’d come late to these arts, and had never been at ease with a stylus.

  She was at ease with a bow and a woodland trail, however, so Charlotte trusted her to track the brigands to their lair.

  What she didn’t trust was the younger woman having the sense to come back for the rest of her team. Although they’d only been together for a year, Court had quickly become the leader of their little band, and was constantly throwing herself into danger to protect the others.

  Charlotte quickly scribbled a note to Rosalind, urging her to gather resources and follow her fellow Angel. Courtney would likely need backup, and Rosa wasn’t a warrior, but smarter than all of them put together.

  Sighing, Charlotte threw down her stylus and scrubbed a hand down her face.

  “Rough day?”

  Her husband’s voice jerked her attention to the door, and as always, when she saw that wry smile of his, her heart lifted. Liam’s arms were crossed in front of him, and his hip was resting against the jamb.

  As she stood, she stretched and affected a nonchalant air. “No’ as bad as some. Ye?”

  He shrugged and pushed away from the wall, prowling across the room toward her. “Nae threats to Her Majesty. Just boring arguments and pleas. We’re expected to sit with her tonight.”

  Charlotte almost stumbled as she stepped away from her desk, but it was impossible to pay attention to silly little matters such as furniture when he had that I need you look in his eyes.

  “Aye?” she croaked, her hands already lifting to her laces.

  “Aye. It seems Her Majesty is determined to enjoy every last evening of revelry, before she enters her confinement.” Liam halted before her, his hands settling on her hips, as he leaned closer.

  When he inhaled deeply against her neck, as if tasting her, Charlotte’s knees went weak.

  “And— And she wants us—” she managed to squeak, thoroughly distracted by the feel of his shoulders under her palms.

  “To dine with her again, aye. Ye ken ye’re one of her best friends,” he murmured, dropping his lips to her skin.

  He was right; Charlotte and Elizabeth had grown close over the last year, and both enjoyed the other’s company. Charlotte was looking forward to finally meeting the royal prince or princess who’d be born soon, but was more looking forward to getting her friend back.

  And maybe she would’ve said all of that, had Liam’s tongue not rasped against the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

  When she moaned, he yanked her closer, his hard member pressing against her pelvis.

  God! The sensation—the knowledge he wanted her—made her warm and wet and breathless in a heartbeat.

  “Dinner is an hour away,” she said breathlessly.

  Mayhap he heard the plea in her voice, or mayhap he was as desperate as she was, because his grin was wicked.

  “There’s all sorts of ways to spend that hour,” he drawled.

  Her solar was connected to their shared chambers, but they didn’t need a bed. Hell, they didn’t need a desk sometimes, when they stole moments to be together.

  This afternoon, though…

  “Just let me move some of my scrolls,” she commanded.

  A year ago, she’d thought her life simple. Without love or a future, she’d been focused on punishing a traitor and saving herself from a cruel marriage. Now, she had friends, a purpose, and a position in the royal court no one could even guess at.

  And most importantly, she had a husband she loved with all her heart. A husband who would stand beside her, and allow her to stand beside him, for the rest of their lives.

  As she turned to her desk and began to push letters out of the way—the last time they’d made love here, her admittedly haphazard organization had been completely ruined—she felt his hands reach for her skirts.

  “Let’s no’ worry about the scrolls, love,” he murmured against her hair.

  She grinned wickedly. “Ye want me to just bend over and lift my skirts?”

  “I want ye on the bed, but I donae think I can wait that long.”

  So Charlotte was laughing as she reached for the edge of the desk, feeling cool air against her arse. Aye, she had friends around her, a future changing history, and a husband who couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  Life was good.

  Author’s Note

  Elizabeth de Burgh was Robert I’s second wife, and was seized by the English shortly after he declared himself King of Scotland (and thus at war with the English). She was indeed kept prisoner for eight years before Robert was able to exchange her for hostages he took during the Battle of Bannockburn. (While Elizabeth was kept in solitary confinement, she was taken with Robert’s daughter Marjorie, and a few more of his female relatives. Most of them were exchanged in 1314 with Elizabeth.)

  The records indicate her journey home took her through Carlisle, and theoretically, from there, Scone. The most logical journey would’ve been overland, but then I wouldn’t have the chance to introduce her to my pirate-turned-spy-mistress, Charlotte MacLeod.

  So we’re going with the theory that Robert, wanting to keep his wife safe, and Elizabeth, being cunning, devised a less-obvious route home. And that’s how Elizabeth and her royal bodyguard ended up in the middle of the Western Isles! (As an aside, I have to point out that by the summer of 1315, Robert was already waging war in Ireland, so I scheduled this adventure for spring.)

  Interesting note: There’s not a whole lot of information out there on medieval birlinns! We know they existed (thanks to some archaeological evidence, and surprisingly, quite a few uses in clan crests), and it’s probably best to think of them as a cross between a Viking longboat and a galley.

  They were long and low, and lik
ely didn’t often make journeys of longer than a few days without stopping. Oars and sails were both used for propulsion, and the boats were primarily trading vessels between ports, or transport between islands (and Ireland).

  Those islands—the Hebrides—were known as the Isles, and were ruled by a series of powerful chiefs. At the time of this story, they would’ve only recently become part of Scotland.

  The MacLeods of Lewes were a relatively new clan (a branch of the older MacLeods of Dunvegan), but I couldn’t pass up the chance to make the Black Banner hail from an island fortress!

  Besides, you might recognize the clan—and the pirate!—from my book The MacLeod Pirate. The Black Banner is very much a hereditary title, and if you’re curious about Tav and Charlotte’s Uncle Rory and his adventurous courtship of Citrine, the last of the Sinclair Jewels, you’ll want to pick up that story! But if you feel like starting from the beginning, The Sinclair Hound is only $.99!

  Clan MacDonald comes off looking pretty bad in this story, but I tried to localize the treasonous activities to just the son, John. Within a century of this story, there were seemingly dozens of MacDonald branches, so I tried to be as vague as possible in naming this branch of the clan.

  Much has been written about Robert the Bruce’s journey to a unified Scotland, and you can find any number of romances set during this tumultuous time. But little is known about his life with Elizabeth, or her world after her ransom from the English. We don’t even know the dates of birth for her first two (female) children, but we do know she became pregnant soon after her return to Scotland, so I’m choosing to believe Princess Margaret was born about a year later.

  The few sources we do have seem to paint Queen Elizabeth as either a pampered noblewoman, or a not-quite-willing-supporter of her husband’s campaign, they’re paltry and inconclusive. I’ve decided to interpret them as the quips of a sharp-minded, witty woman, who was beloved by her husband and family.

  Queen Elizabeth will most definitely be a force to be reckoned with! Now that she has her Angels, she’ll make sure Scotland is protected from within.

  If you’re totally intrigued by the concept of Charlotte as a spy-mistress, and are super-curious about what someone like the branded thief, Courtney, is doing in the Queen’s employ, then I’ve got some good news for you: The Highlander’s Angel, the first book in the Highland Angels series, is waiting for you!

  About Caroline Lee

  USA Today Bestseller Caroline Lee writes #HistoryWithHeart

  If you’re into sexy Highlanders or sensual cowboys, she’d love to introduce you to characters you’ll never forget!

  Visit Caroline’s website for free books and excerpts, and to sign up for her newsletter

  Join Caroline’s Facebook group

  Browse Caroline’s books, on Amazon

  Follow Caroline

  On Bookbub

  Marooned

  by Anna Markland

  Prologue

  Sankt Thomas, Danish West Indies, 1825

  “I’ll kill them,” Torsten Jakobsen shouted, waving the loaded pistol erratically. “I’ll kill them all.”

  Heidi cowered in a corner of the tiny kitchen, as she’d done too often before, but this time she was terrified her husband might turn the weapon on her if she uttered a word. She knew better than to try to reason with him when rum had him in its thrall, and he reeked of the demon drink.

  Bruises were bearable, a bullet to the head...

  “No longer needed,” Torsten yelled, pointing the gun at her face. “My services are no longer needed. And whose fault is that, wife?”

  She’d borne the brunt of his anger and his fists for two years. Her campaign to improve the lives of the hundreds of slaves owned by the Danish West Indies company had angered his employers and resulted in his demotion, but she couldn’t be blamed for the decline of the entire sugar industry. More efficient American competition had achieved that.

  “What do they expect me to do?” Torsten ranted, eyes bulging. “Take my lovely wife back to Denmark?”

  The looming possibility of a long return voyage to their homeland filled Heidi with dread. There was nothing left for them there. The economy of Denmark was still floundering after the defeat of her ally Napoleon and the subsequent loss of Norway to Sweden. They’d be destitute, dependent on Heidi’s older brother who’d inherited the family farm. Thormod wasn’t known for his philanthropic nature.

  Besides, despite the difficulties, she loved the tropical island they’d come to five years ago, full of youthful optimism. Perhaps if she tried to comfort her husband...

  She swallowed the leaden taste of fear. “I...”

  The crack wasn’t loud. The deafening silence that followed stole the breath from her lungs. She stared in disbelief, steeling her body against the pain, the blood, the descent into oblivion. Her husband had murdered her.

  But it was Torsten who crumpled to the floor, blood trickling from his mouth, his eyes wide with shock, the smoking gun still in his grip.

  Startled out of nearby nests, squawking grackles drowned out the sound of her screams.

  Flight

  Atlantic Ocean, 1825

  Heidi Jakobsen gripped the sloop’s stern rail with both hands and peered into the sunrise as the Hekla sliced through choppy Atlantic waters on its westerly journey to Puerto Rico and the Caribbean. The shores of Sankt Thomas were still visible on the dawn horizon. She was leaving behind the optimistic Danish girl who’d begun a new life on the sun-drenched colonial island five years ago. “It’s ironic,” she murmured. “I never wanted to come to Sankt Thomas in the first place.”

  “Your pardon,” a gentleman standing beside her said. “Jeg taler ikke dansk. I don’t speak Danish.”

  Mortified she’d spoken out loud and momentarily blinded by staring into the rising sun, she squinted to see the ruddy face of her elderly fellow traveler. He was well-dressed, sported a tidy grey mustache and smelled of wealth. Probably a British sugar magnate, or… “You are American?” she asked.

  “You guessed right, young lady,” he replied with a clipped bow. “Roland Stephenson the Third, at your service. You’re going home to Denmark, I suppose.”

  He’d rightly assumed most of the dispirited Danes aboard the Hekla were fleeing the crumbling economy. She supposed Denmark would be her final destination since she’d been forced to leave the place where dreams of a happy married life lay in ruins. At least the company that had cast her husband aside like a piece of rubbish had paid her fare. “Eventually,” she allowed. “I hope to visit New York first. I have a tante, an aunt, who lives there.”

  “I’m a Baltimore man myself,” he replied. “Though I’ve spent many years in the sweltering heat of Florida since it became part of the United States.”

  “Sugar?” she asked in her limited English.

  “Right again!”

  He turned, leaned back against the railing and pointed with his ornately carved cane. “Culebra dead ahead,” he declared. “We’ll be in Caribbean waters soon.”

  She followed his gaze. Beyond the sparsely populated island of Culebra lay Puerto Rico. She and her new husband had sailed from the eastern shores of the Spanish colony on the last leg of the exhausting journey from København to Sankt Thomas.

  It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “Don’t worry,” Torsten had assured her. “After we make our fortune with the Danish West India Company, we’ll go home, buy land and build a big house.”

  “You seem lost in thought,” the American said. “Will you miss Saint Thomas? Very different from Denmark.”

  “My husband died there,” she replied, not sure if miss was the right word.

  “My condolences,” he said, taking out a brilliantly white kerchief to mop his beet red face. “I know only too well how hard the tropics can be on a man’s health.”

  It seemed ridiculous to explain all that had befallen her to this elderly foreigner who was clearly uncomfortable in the heat, but the words tumbled out of her mout
h. “We were aware the prosperity of the island depended on slave labor,” she said, realizing now how naive they’d been. “But the notion meant nothing to either of us until we saw first-hand how cruelly slaves are treated by the plantation owners and even company directors.”

  “Yes,” Stephenson sighed, leaning heavily on his cane as he retrieved a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “No better than animals.”

  She nodded, but the lack of conviction in his voice and the nonchalant way he returned the watch to its nest had her wondering how many slaves the affluent American owned. “Their plight didn’t sit well with my Lutheran upbringing. My ineffective calls for an improvement of their working conditions raised the ire of my husband’s superiors.”

  “Which led to arguments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  She swallowed the bitter memory of the hurtful insults they’d hurled at each other. “When I refused to stay quiet, he was demoted to clerking for the Brandenburg African Company.”

  Stephenson grimaced. “The unscrupulous Germans who lease a trading post from the Danes and deal exclusively in human flesh. It’s rumored they conduct the biggest slave markets in the world in Saint Thomas.”

  “My husband told me,” she murmured, unable to bring herself to describe the effect his demotion had on Torsten. Equally disgusted and disillusioned by the inhumanity of the slave trade and resentful of the fate that had befallen him, he turned to drink, blaming Heidi for his troubles. He was always remorseful about the beatings and violent sexual encounters when he was sober. Her Christian faith taught she must forgive him, but her broken heart and bruised body came to despise and fear him.

  She sought a safer topic. “Despite the difficulties, the tropics seduced me. When other European women complained of the heat, my Scandinavian blood drank it in. When humidity drove others to higher ground, I savored the salty taste on my lips. I filled my lungs with the thousand and one perfumes of wild tropical blooms while others pined for tamed roses and privet hedges.”