My Hunted Highlander Page 3

  “What is it?”

  “Cook says supper is waiting for ye. Ye want it in here?” Keegan asked.

  Two hours had already passed? Without pulling on her trews or boots, she walked to the door, opened it a few inches, and smiled down at her son’s sweet face. “I will eat with the men tonight. Save me a seat, okay?”

  Keegan raced down the hall toward their cramped dining area. The aroma of roasting meat reached her nose and her empty stomach rumbled. She should have told him to make sure the ale stayed in the barrel, but her men would only grumble.

  She despised the use of ale or whisky on ship. Her late husband overindulged too often. When he did, his temper flared. She cupped her cheek, remembering how she’d felt his wrath numerous times, and worried the men would turn on her.

  “These are good family men,” she reassured herself, as she slipped into her stockings. She pulled on her trews and tied a long piece of twisted red linen around her waist.

  I miss zippers.

  Stepping into boots, she shoved her curved gully knife into her belted sash. Images from her dream lingered. She’d have to wait until morning to question the handsome stranger. If she faced him tonight, and got a closer look at his lips, chest, or…other parts, she’d never get to sleep.

  ***

  “Are ye truly sleeping? I only beg to ask ye if ye be comfortable.”

  Against Bill’s adamant suggestion, Niall rolled over, and sat up on the hard wooden pallet. Keeping his bare feet out of the bilge water, he kept wayward strands of hair over his face, and peered through them at the dark-haired man, who stood outside his prison.

  When he held up a lantern, the sudden bright light stung Niall’s one useable eye. He squinted, but did not answer. He doubted a response was expected.

  Since they were of a similar height, the low ceiling brushed the dark-haired man’s head. He was thin and lanky, but Niall did not assume he was any less formidable.

  “I have come to warn ye.”

  His face showed no anger or mirth, yet Niall was uneasy. The acid in his words proved he was a man to avoid. Bill alluded to the danger of addressing this man, but Niall was a warrior. His need to escape meant he needed to learn all he could, about this ship, and her crew.

  Her captain, too.

  When the silence lengthened, Niall smiled up at his jailer. “I thank ye for the clothes.”

  “Rags, true, but better than nothing, for protecting yer…assets. The captain has a habit of…unmanning prisoners.”

  Niall gulped, and the man’s face broke into a wide grin. When his laughter echoed in the close quarters, and he raised a curved knife, Niall looked away.

  When he calmed, and stepped closer to the cell wall, Niall stepped off the pallet, and moved to the back of the cell, out of reach.

  “I shall leave ye with some free advice. Doono’ look our captain in the eye. Answer her questions truthfully, and cower like a timid mouse. She might take pity on ye, and put ye ashore.”

  Nodding, Niall relaxed on his pallet and drew his chilled feet from the water underlining his cage. They had not given him any footwear, nor a blanket. As the man headed up the stairs, Niall called after him.

  “Yer name, sir?”

  “Raven Snoddy, First Mate.”

  As he retreated above deck, darkness blanketed Niall. He assumed the sun had dipped below the horizon, but he had no sense of time. The hold was cold and dark, and Raven Snoddy had walked away with the only lantern.

  Having eaten well, and dressed in rags that covered most of his body, he curled up into a ball, and let sleep wrench him from the blackness of despair. He prayed he would dream of a red-haired, green-eyed hellion, who commanded a ship filled with dangerous Scottish pirates. He had glanced at her from where he had sat, in the small galley of the ship, and had bit his cheek to keep his body from reacting to her beauty. Although she dressed in a coarse vest and leggings, instead of a dress, she was a feminine treat for his soul. The billowing sleeves of her crisp, white shirt reminded him of Scottish faeries, but she handled her men with brusque words and stern commands.

  God save any English vessels.

  CHAPTER 3

  Blair strode into the cramped eating area adjacent to the galley, and a wave of relief washed over her. The room was empty. Better yet, Raven was absent. She had no yearning to battle wits with the man. He was turning obstinate, and the men had started to question her decisions whenever Raven made opposing suggestions. A mutiny would turn man against man, and she might find herself thrown into the sea, or abused by the men she commanded.

  She shivered at the thought. The North Sea was always cold, but the approaching storm could bring lower temperatures, and slam their craft with huge waves. Drowning was unpleasant. Her guest had nearly suffered such a death.

  Why am I thinking of him?

  She sat in a chair at the head of the table, and smiled when Keegan rushed to her side. Other boots tramped down the stairs, and several men settled into empty chairs. Most nodded to her. Where was Raven?

  “Would ye like a tankard of ale, mama? Umm, Captain?” Keegan’s cheeks reddened, and his gaze lowered to his feet. A few men chuckled.

  “No. Fresh water is fine. We should all keep our heads clear, since we are so close to shore.”

  “But, Capt’n…” Bill pleaded.

  “A storm is nearly upon us, Bill. It lies between us, and home. What if we are attacked by an English warship, or two? Water is best.”

  The men grumbled, but held out their empty tankards. Keegan brought her a tankard, then fetched a pitcher. As he saw to the men’s refreshment, Cook entered from the galley with a huge pot.

  “More fish stew?” Thomas asked.

  Several of the men cursed beneath their breaths.

  “Cease yer grumbling. ‘Tis lamb stew this time, with potatoes, carrots, and onions I had hidden away. Doono’ grumble like ye do when I serve black bean hash, or bone soup.”

  “Fish bones were never meant to make a soup,” one of the crew whispered.

  “Stop yer havering, and eat. ‘Tis better than me haggis. Only missing the oatmeal, sheep’s lungs, and stomach.”

  Blair blanched, and raised her linen napkin to her mouth. She’d tasted haggis years earlier at a Robert Burn’s Annual Supper, put on by the St. Andrew’s Society of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and decided that anything baked in a sheep’s stomach was not a taste she would ever grow to love.

  “Besides, I be baking shortbread, and if ye quiet down, I might let ye taste it later this evening.”

  The men roared their applause, and Blair smiled. She joined in, clapping her hands. She loved Scottish shortbread. It was one of the many treats she purchased, whenever she visited the New England Highland Games. There was nothing more heavenly than biting into Cook’s rich, sugary confection of flour, sugar and butter.

  If I was home, I’d add chocolate chips, or ice the shortbread with a maple glaze.

  Blair prayed that the stew was as delicious as Cook claimed. Once the storm lashed their vessel, a hot meal would be but a memory. It was too dangerous for him to keep a fire lit in a rocking ship. Keegan raced around the table, and set bowls and spoons in front of the crew.

  When Cook stood at her side, and ladled stew into her bowl, she got his attention, by setting her hand on his wrist.

  “I’ll need an inventory of your needs. We’ll be putting in to shore, as soon as the storm abates.”

  Cook nodded. “I shall make a list before I head to bed. If the storm breaks, I plan to sleep late.” He winked and returned to the galley. Whispered conversation and slurps followed, as the meal passed in near-quiet comfort. Blair was deciding what questions to ask her guest in the morning, when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Raven entered the room.

  He nodded at her, then shoved a crewman from a seat. The young man kept quiet as he glanced at her, but she couldn’t help him. Raven was an ill-bred bully, and she regretted the day she named him her First Mate.

  Sh
e smiled at the young man, then flicked her gaze toward the galley. He stormed from the room, with no further confrontation. She did not need another feud onboard her ship. She had need of every able bodied man she could find.

  “Keegan! Bring me ale!” Raven said.

  Blair stood, raising her hand to her son. “Belay that order.” Turning to Raven, she waited until the fury in his eyes abated. “I would like the crew, and my officers, to remain on high alert. This storm could prove life-threatening. I’ll need your expertise to keep the ship from harm.”

  As she returned to her seat, she knew she had stroked his ego enough to prevent any argument. Keeping him out of her cabin was an ongoing challenge. She had told him to stay away, but he was the type of man people in the future would call a stalker.

  The meal progressed, and the men stood and left, one by one. When only she and Raven remained, he downed the rest of his water, slamming the empty tankard on the rough, wood table. Bowls and utensils jumped, and Keegan rushed to clear the table.

  When they were alone, once more, Blair waited to see what was on the man’s mind. She hoped it wasn’t her.

  “I visited our guest.”

  Surprise must have shown on her face, because he sneered, and settled back in his chair.

  “He is rather ugly and malformed. The scars are grisly, and most likely earned from scrounging for food, or coin, where he dinno’ belong. The sea gave him a well-earned beating, ‘tis my guess. His face is a mangled mess.”

  “He’s had it rough, and I hope he doesn’t lose that eye.” She might help him recover by furnishing him with an eye patch. Then he would really look the part of a pirate. Her crew was nothing like the pirates of the Caribbean, but her North Sea sailors were less than honest. She kept the men in line, so they didn’t slaughter their victims. Her position as captain of The Black Thistle had turned into a fulltime job.

  She had her late husband to thank, for that.

  After what the English did to their previous home, she constantly worried how the crew would react, the next time an English flag unfurled near their ship.

  “The loss of an eye is no’ a bother, but the man is a cowering simpleton. He smells worse than bilge water.”

  “Considering I ordered Bill to give him rags to wear, and his prison is in a hold that stinks of bilge water, I can understand why.” She rather thought he smelled like the sea; wild, salty, and exotic.

  “We should return him to the depths. I doubt he has any value.”

  Was Raven worried? Had her interest in the golden-haired merman shown on her face? She needed to keep her emotions close to her vest. Her late husband taught her that. If she appeared to like something, he tossed it away. When he had discovered her, talking and laughing with one of the newer crew, the sailor vanished.

  “I will question him tomorrow, so let’s leave him alone tonight. If he doesn’t enjoy the accommodations, he’ll talk. I will not release him, unless I know he has no value. Our villagers have many needs, if we are to survive the coming winter. By using him as a beast of burden, once we get to the cave, we could fill our hold quicker.”

  Raven nodded, but his hand clenched the arm of his chair. “I beg yer leave, or shall we…”

  He stood, walked slowly around the table, and stopped beside her chair.

  Blair’s back stiffened. When she glared up at him, Raven sighed, smiled, and stepped several feet away. Leaning against the adjacent wall, he crossed his arms over his chest.

  Blair’s shoulders relaxed. She hadn’t realized how tense Raven made her. Sex was a sure-fire way to relieve tension, but she didn’t plan to repeat that one indiscretion. As her thoughts drifted back to her prisoner, she caught her breath.

  Under the dirt and salt, bruises and scars, Blair sensed a treasure lay dormant, and just out of her reach. Would his hair, once clean and dry, match the line of golden hair that flowed down his chest, and covered his groin? When his facial bruising lessened, would the scar across his right cheek dull her rising attraction? She hoped he proved to have some value. She’d hate to order him killed.

  ***

  The hours passed in agony, and Niall had no way of knowing if dawn had broken. Thunder had wrenched him from a fitful sleep. Earlier, when he had finally fallen asleep, his dreams were filled with sparkling green eyes, and dark red curls. Dreaming about his captor was odd. She was nothing like the women he preferred in his bed. He had caught a glimpse of a boyish figure beneath her trews, and since they did not spill from her shirt, he pictured small breasts. In his dream, the shirt fell away, and he suckled the pert, rosy-tipped nipples until…

  The ship jerked, then rolled threateningly to its side, and tossed him hard against the bars of his cramped cell. The weather had grown ominously worse. When the ship rose and fell again, boots thudded across the upper decks.

  The ship righted itself, but when voices rose in alarm, his heart slammed inside his chest. He was locked in a cell. If the vessel capsized, he would most certainly drown.

  He waded through murky water to the door of his prison. The rolling hull had doused him with bilge water, and his cage rattled beneath his grip, but the lock held. The water had already risen to his knees, while more sloshed down the stairs from the main deck, two levels above. His empty stomach clenched with dread, not hunger.

  Another hard shake made him lose his grip on the bars, and he slid through the muck toward the back of the cell. Imprisoned, his very life was threatened. If released, he could help the crew. He’d spent weeks on one of Marcus Mackenzie’s fishing vessels. The laird of Castle Ruadh had appreciated his help, and Niall had used the opportunity to catch fresh fish, in order to feed the thirty men who had fled Tulac Castle with him.

  He had not wished to leave his home. His sire’s treatment of their clan had broken many a man’s fealty, claiming Angus Sinclair a tyrant, and a murderer. Such attributes in a Highland warrior would not be amiss when battling a foe, but his sire had hurt his own clansmen.

  Fishing was an enjoyable way to earn food, and while aboard Mackenzie’s vessel, they caught enough fish, to barter at nearby villages. He preferred to hunt, but the clans that claimed the forests around Wick were against anyone hunting in their woodlands. Fresh venison, laid low by an arrow from his longbow, was delicious; stewed with chunks of potato and carrots, or roasted over an open fire, then smothered with mushrooms and a thick brown sauce.

  His stomach growled.

  This was not the time to crave food and drink. The ship groaned with each wave, and thunder boomed. Lightning flashes flickered from above, because the doorway at the top of the stairs was open. Open?

  “Release me! Help!”

  Light footsteps raced toward him. When the young lad, who had given him a much-enjoyed tankard of fresh water, stopped at a step above the reach of the muddy water, his pale face looked drawn. Fear widened his green eyes. Eyes too familiar to ignore.

  “Who be yer sire, lad?”

  The boy glanced to the top of the creaking stairs, then stuttered, “Me mama says I doono’ have a need to share.”

  “Does she even know?” It was common for a woman, who took several lovers, to have no idea who fathered her bairn.

  “Nay. The captain is enough for me.”

  “Ye like living on a ship?” He wanted to laugh, then his laughter died in his throat. Boys as young, or as small, as this child, were bound to experience pain, or a miserable life. If an older sailor took him under his wing to teach him more than sailing…

  “I dinno’ want to starve on land.”

  “Why would ye starve?” When an angry voice bellowed far above, the lad placed a finger to his lips. “Please be quiet.”

  “Let me out of here before I drown,” Niall whispered.

  “Raven is in his cups. The storm is lessening, so yer safer locked in this cage. He doono’ like ye.”

  “I had the same impression. Do ye know why?” If the first mate had his way, Niall feared he was doomed. If the captain wanted ransom, he coul
d not allow them to attempt to hold him for gold, because it would not end well. Clan Sinclair was nearly destitute, thanks to his sire.

  Keegan laughed, then whispered, “Raven hates ye because the captain finds ye quite pretty. ‘Tis yer hair that reminds her of the gold she has hidden in a cave. We are off to fetch it.” He sloshed through the water, then shoved a wineskin and a crusty loaf of days-old bannock through the cage. Without another word, he turned and headed back through the muck, to the stairs.

  “Lad, doono’ leave me here!”

  On the bottom step, he paused, then turned back to Niall. “Call me Keegan, and keep yer voice down. Ye will ride out the storm just fine. Honest, sir. Ye be safer locked away. Do nothing to make Raven wish to hurry along yer demise.” In a flash, he vanished.

  Niall climbed back onto the pallet, but the water level would creep over his little island, soon.

  “I be soaked, already.” The briny smell, mixed with pine tar, made breathing painful. The boat pitched and creaked, but he forced the food into his mouth. Groaning with pleasure, he swallowed the crusty bannock, then drank from the wineskin. Regaining his strength was imperative.

  Keeping a low profile, to assure that they never discovered his true identity, meant he had to come up with a plan. While the storm raged, he worked out a little scenario in his head that would explain why they had found him adrift in the North Sea, and would give them all a reason to keep him alive.

  He hoped.

  Any chance of escape required him to be free of his cage, and up on deck. When they finally made landfall, he would slip away. Before that happened, he would need to prove his usefulness to the captain, while not tempting her to put him to death. Could he tempt her in other ways?

  I be bruised, scarred and dressed in rags. I could ne’er tempt any lass.

  Once the swelling around his cheek and eye went down, and until his escape, he needed to change his looks. Someone on board might have dealt with him, or his clan. However, he first needed to get out of this cage.

  CHAPTER 4