The Highlander's Pirate Lass (Brothers of Wolf Isle)

by McCollum, Heather

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Get Scandalous with these historical reads… Highland Hero

  The Bachelor Bargain

  The Spinster and the Rake

  Her Reluctant Highlander Husband

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Heather McCollum. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Rd

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Alethea Spiridon and Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations

  Cover photography by Period Images

  william87/Getty Images

  ISBN 978-1-64937-118-8

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2021

  For Sophie, my sweet golden pup, who I rescued eleven years ago. She’d been treated horribly, to the point we couldn’t touch her without her showing her teeth. But we hired a “dog whisperer” to teach us how to earn her trust. It took a year of me rubbing her every night and telling her how beautiful she was for her to let me touch her backside without growling. Persistence and love paid off. I can’t imagine not having her sweetness in our family. She was rescued and is loved so much by our big, boisterous, roll-on-the-floor family after a very tough beginning.

  There may not be pirates sailing the seas every day in the 21st century, but there are still devils out there who abuse the weak. May we all become rescuers in our own ways.

  Foreign words used in The Highlander’s Pirate Lass

  (French – F, Scots-Gaelic – SG)

  Êtes-vous français? – Are you French? (F)

  mattucashlass – short dagger with both sides of the blade sharpened (SG)

  sgian dubh – short dagger with one side of the blade sharpened, usually concealed (SG)

  bourreau – executioner (name of Jandeau’s ship) (F)

  quelle beauté – such a beauty (F)

  un peu de paradis – a bit of heaven (F)

  c’est l’amour – it is love (F)

  bòcan – ghost (SG)

  feu loin le feu – fire away, fire away (F)

  ifrinn chan eil – hell no (SG)

  daingead – dammit (SG)

  mo chreach – (SG) Interjection meaning alas, my goodness, alack

  Chapter One

  27 June 1547

  Eilean Mòr Isle in the Sound of Jura, Scotland

  “Do ye need help, lass?” Beck Macquarie yelled as he cupped hands around his mouth. He held his arm up to block the sting of the sideways-gusting rain and stared up at the woman standing above him on a storm-swept rock jutting out into the sea. Waves shot upward on the far side behind her. The wind threw her long hair into violent disarray, hiding her face, tendrils lifting into the air like Medusa’s snakes.

  “She looks like a witch,” Rabbie MacDougall yelled into Beck’s ear and backed up to stand near the rowboat that tossed in the wild surf pummeling the small, usually deserted isle.

  Beck did not take his eyes off the mysterious woman who had waved desperately to him as he watched from the deck of the Calypso, his three-masted carrack ship. Despite the incoming storm, he’d ordered the sails lowered and dropped the rowing boat into the choppy sea. If it had been any later in the day, without the muted daylight, he would have sailed right past the one-square-mile island on his way home to Wolf Isle.

  Lightning split the sky, making Beck’s brother, Drostan, curse. “Help me get the boat up the beach,” Drostan yelled over the thunder. He was right; there was no rowing back out to Beck’s ship in this tempest. Bewitched isle or not, the three of them were stuck here until the storm blew out. Beck helped drag the boat higher, where his brother tied the thick rope around a tree at the top of the beach.

  “Where’d she go?” Rabbie asked, and Beck’s gaze swung past the swaying trees to the empty rock ledge.

  “Bloody hell,” he murmured. Had she been swept out to sea?

  “There!” Drostan pointed toward the trees farther up the rise. The woman stood in the shelter they offered. She wore a long blue gown that rainwater molded to her body. Her hair fell to just past her shoulders, framing a serious face.

  “She could be a bloody siren,” Rabbie said. “Or a kelpie come to steal our souls.”

  Beck marched forward. “Then ye can stay out here.”

  His father’s old friend cursed and trudged forward to follow. The woman studied them as they drew closer, passing judgment. High cheekbones sat in an oval face, and her full lips parted as she breathed in the sea air swirling around them as if she were part of the elements.

  “Êtes-vous français?” she called out and lifted a sword in her hand.

  “Damn,” Drostan said. “She’s French.”

  The woman’s gaze went from Beck to Drostan. “You are Scots?” she called out, her accent scrubbed clean of every hint of French.

  “Aye,” Beck replied against the wind. Turning, she beckoned him to follow, and he marched up the shifting rocks to the stable tree line.

  “She could still be French,” Rabbie said. “Leading us into her trap.”

  Drostan’s voice was heavy with frustration. “If ye are frightened of everything, ye shouldn’t have left Wolf Isle.”

  “’Tis getting too crowded there,” Rabbie said, making Beck snort.

  His home, Wolf Isle, had two inhabited dwellings for abandoned children and desperate lasses. No one lived permanently in the village, and their clan castle was occupied by his brothers and his eldest brother’s wife and bairn. Besides that, no one else lived there. No one yet dared. Not with the curse that threatened their clan.

  “Maybe we should leave ye here with the mermaidens then,” Drostan said.

  The woman stopped to make sure they were still behind her. She continued to hold her basket-hilt sword. Did she know how to use it? His sister-in-law, Lark, certainly knew how to throw a dagger.

  Bright green summer grass spread out under the pelting drops before them as they crossed a meadow where rain-heavy wildflowers bent over. Ahead stood an old stone chapel, alone and abandoned. Its glass windowpanes were broken out, and half the roof lay toppled with grass growing on the half still aloft. The lass ducked inside the open door.

  Beck drew his long dirk, stepping up to the doorway. With the missing roof, light filtered inside as he foll
owed cautiously. She stood in the middle of the dry side of the room which held a table, two trunks, and a fairly large bed.

  “They are Scots,” she called out. Her strong voice held a musical quality. Maybe you are a siren.

  Out from the corners came three…children, the oldest being almost a man and the youngest little more than a bairn held in the arms of another woman. The middle child was a lass of about eight years.

  “Are you a pirate?” the lad asked, his hair falling into his eyes, making him blink over his scowl. He also held a sword.

  “Nay,” Beck answered. Drostan and Rabbie stepped inside behind him, and the two children backed up.

  “What are you then?” asked the young girl. “You have a ship.”

  “I am a pirate hunter,” Beck replied. They kept their frowns.

  “Do you work for the English?” the woman in blue asked.

  He met her stare steadily. “I work for myself and my clan.”

  “The Macquarie Clan of Wolf Isle,” Drostan said, using the English version of the Norse-named isle. “’Tis also called Ulva Isle.”

  She squinted her eyes. “No men live on Wolf Isle,” she said.

  “They do now,” Drostan replied. “What do ye know of our isle?”

  She ignored him, looking to Beck. “We request passage on your ship over to the Isle of Mull. I can pay.” Her lips clamped closed.

  “My price is high,” he said.

  Her chin tilted upward, her free hand going to a medallion she wore on a chain around her lovely long neck. “Tell me your price.”

  Beck let his frown melt to a half grin. “Your name.”

  Rabbie snorted. “Ye should have found out what she has in them trunks first.” He raised his voice. “And are ye a bastard?”

  “Hold your tongue,” Drostan whispered.

  Her gaze remained on Beck. “Eliza,” she said.

  “Do ye have a family name?”

  “Hardly,” she answered.

  “How did ye find yourself here?” he asked.

  “Is my answer part of the price of passage?”

  He glanced at their meager possessions. “I need to know if I will be bringing criminals to Mull. Chief Tor Maclean would not appreciate it.”

  “Three children, an old woman, and a lass?” she asked. “Do we look like criminals?”

  “I am only two score,” the woman holding the fair-haired bairn said. She swayed gently as the little one clung to her neck, staring with wide eyes out from a bounty of blond curls.

  The lad frowned fiercely. “And I’m already thirteen years.”

  The wind and rain blew in from the back of the structure, scattering a few old leaves. “Your name and your circumstances,” Beck said. “That is the price, or we leave ye here.” Could she tell he was bluffing?

  She glared but gave a nod. “My name is Eliza Wentworth.” Her fingers rose to touch the medallion. “We were taken from our ship and stranded here by pirates. I waved you down because we have run out of food, and we cannot live on daisies, hares, and the few fish we manage to catch.” She sheathed her sword but kept her hands open as if ready to pull a dagger. “Will you take us to Mull?”

  Pirates who let her keep her sword and trunks? “Aye,” Beck said. Regardless of the circumstances, he wasn’t about to leave women and children to starve on a deserted isle. He’d be hardly better than the French pirate that he hunted.

  Eliza nodded. “We are ready to leave the moment it is safe to row across.”

  “Frig,” the boy cursed. “I could swim out there right now if you have food onboard, lightning or not.”

  “How long have ye been stuck here?” Drostan asked.

  Beck surveyed the rain-dampened and windblown shelter. The middle lass ran over to the wall where little lines were chiseled. She ran her finger over them. “Fifteen days.”

  “God’s teeth,” Rabbie said under his breath. “They be nearly starving.”

  “We will wait for the storm to abate,” Beck said, pulling his leather satchel from his shoulder. He’d thrown in some rations of bannocks, cheese, and a bladder of ale for the three of them before they rowed out, knowing they’d probably be staying the night. He walked over to the table, pulling out the provisions.

  “Cheese,” the little girl squealed, running over.

  “And it isn’t rancid,” the older woman said. She nodded to Beck. “I am Alice. Thank you.”

  Beck uncorked the flask. Eliza motioned to a barrel that sat in the uncovered portion of the dwelling. “We have water.”

  “’Tis whisky,” Rabbie said. The boy took it from Beck’s hand, but Eliza walked up and swept it away.

  “’Tis only ale,” Beck said. “Watered-down ale.”

  “The rainwater is fine,” Eliza said, handing it back to Beck. She looked to the boy. “Eat something.” The boy snatched up a bannock. The others gathered around the table, eating quickly. Even the bairn chewed the bannock without dropping a single crumb.

  “Ye need to eat too,” Beck said to Eliza.

  Her lips pressed inward, and she looked like she would refuse. But then she walked over, checking to make sure everyone else had eaten before sampling some cheese.

  “I am Pip,” the middle girl said, smiling. She was missing two teeth in front that made her lisp. She had red, shoulder-length hair and freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  Beck smiled, his eyebrows raised. “Your parents named ye Pip?”

  “’Tis my pirate name,” she said, raising her chin. “More fierce than Penelope.”

  Beck looked to Eliza. “Do ye have a pirate name?”

  Her gaze slid from Pip to meet his stare. “No.” She pointed at the boy. “Anders.” The boy tipped his head while chewing. “And Alice is holding Hester. She is only two or three.”

  “And ye are all one family?” Drostan asked.

  Rabbie walked along the perimeter, heading as covertly as possible toward the trunks along the one wall. Alice met him there, wee Hester still against her neck, and plopped herself down on top of one of them, her gaze as sharp as a well-hewn mattucashlass.

  “Aye,” Eliza said. “Alice is my mother.”

  “Older sister or a young aunt,” Alice called out.

  “And these are my children.” Eliza met Drostan’s gaze without wavering.

  “Did ye birth the lad when ye were ten, then?” Drostan asked.

  “He’s my nephew.”

  Lies rolled easily from the lass’s mouth, lies she did not even try to cover. They wouldn’t get any real information from her except that they were stranded without food.

  Beck looked to Drostan and gave a little shake of his head. Night was falling quickly, and the wind still gusted. “Hopefully, this will blow off by morn.” He shut the door to stop the breeze from blowing straight through. “Let’s start a fire so ye can get dry.”

  Eliza’s hair had begun to curl in wisps around her face. It was shorter than that of most of the lasses he’d met, stopping just below her shoulders. He wondered how it moved in the breeze when rainwater wasn’t weighing it down.

  “Anders,” Eliza said, and the boy leaped up as if she’d issued an order. He lifted the lid on one of the trunks and pulled out flint, a bit of wool, and some dry twigs.

  Beck sat at the table and took a drink from the ale before passing it to Drostan. Three children and two women left with weapons and flint, but little food.

  “Can you help me, Alice? And Pip?” Eliza shook out a blanket that had been folded inside one of the trunks. Alice handed Hester to the boy, who carried the toddler easily. He stuck his tongue out, making her giggle. Pip and Alice held sides of the blanket so Eliza could duck behind it. Her arms lifted over the edge, and it quickly became obvious that she was changing out of her soaked costume. He looked across at Drostan and Rabbie, who stared at the blanket, Rab
bie with his mouth open.

  “Ye two,” Beck called, and their gazes snapped to the ceiling. When she stepped out, he forgot to inhale. She wore a burgundy gown of satin with embellishments sewn into the bodice, which laced in front over her stays. The petticoat was long as if it were made to lie over a set of full underskirts. Her hair hung about her shoulders in wild curls. It looked more golden as it dried.

  Her gaze slid about the room, landing on him. “We have limited blankets, but this part of the chapel is dry,” she said and took the bairn from Anders. Hester’s eyes were already shut, and Alice waved Eliza over to lay the wee one into an open trunk as if it were her cradle.

  “Teeth, Pip,” Eliza said. “You too, Anders.” The two groaned but took up pieces of cloth and water from a bucket, rubbing their teeth. They had cloth, blankets, and buckets. What type of pirates accommodated their prisoners?

  The children moved about smoothly, as if used to the routine of nightfall. Beck looked to Drostan. “I will take the first watch.”

  Eliza lowered herself onto the cobblestone floor, her back against the wall, and threw a blanket over her skirts. She clutched a dagger in one hand and let her eyes close. In the glow of the fire, her skin was smooth and golden as if the sun had beaten down on her while she’d been marooned.

  “Stop staring at me,” she murmured, her eyes opening.

  Beck cleared his throat. “A pirate left ye and the others here, marooning ye on this isle with rich dresses,” he said, tipping his head to her ensemble. “Weapons, flint, blankets…” He trailed off, making the observation into a question.

  “He said he would return for us. He had no reason to see us dead.”

  Beck quietly picked up the chair he’d been sitting on and set it closer to her so they wouldn’t be talking across the hushed room. The old wood creaked under his bulk. “Yet he has left ye to starve.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, and he tried to ignore how her breasts swelled above the neckline. “Like I said,” she whispered, “he planned to return.” Her lips pinched tight, her voice dropping lower as if she didn’t wish the children to hear. “I can only think that something has happened to him or his ship for him to be so delayed.”