Black Raven's Lady: Highland Lairds Trilogy (22 page)

Raine’s mind and body responded to his softly spoken words of enticement. Her breath coming in quick, short pants, she arched upward, tensing, seeking release as her swollen inner tissues began to convulse around him.

Keir reached between their bodies to find Raine’s sensitive nub and gently caress her. Her surrender came on a long, soft keen of joy and wonder. At the sound, his heart seemed to stall for a moment on his thundering ride to fulfillment. With an unbearable tension clutching his entire body, he poured his seed deep inside her. The intense pleasure of his climax surpassed anything he’d experienced before.

With a low groan of male satisfaction, Keir rolled over onto his back, taking Raine with him, his engorged sex still buried deep inside her. She sat astride his hips, her long legs bent on either side of his body, and rested her smooth cheek on his hairy chest. Her lustrous waist-length curls tumbled around her shoulders, tickling his neck and chin. A feeling of unfathomable happiness seeped into his beleaguered soul.

Keir could hear Raine taking in deep drafts of air and listened with contentment as she gradually returned to her normal breathing. When his thickened shaft moved reflexively inside her, she stirred and started to sit up.

Keir clasped her smooth round buttocks in both sword-hardened palms and held her easily in place. “Don’t move, sweetheart,” he said with a satisfied chuckle. “Our night’s just begun.”

T
HE STORM SEEMED
to come from out of nowhere. The powerful wind shrieked through the rigging, tearing the sails loose from their moorings. Rain poured in torrents from the black clouds, which had suddenly appeared overhead as though blown from the mouth of Poseidon. In minutes, the sunny day became dark as night.

The waves grew ever higher, and the
Black Raven
pitched about wildly. The ship wallowed in the giant troughs, then rose up on the white crest of each huge new wave, only to sink down, down, down into the deep valley again. In the yards overhead, the seamen fought frantically to reef the topgallants and topsails. The roar of the wind and driving rain united with earsplitting booms of thunder.

Lightning flashed, casting an eerie light across the menacing ocean that surrounded them. Over the noise of the tempest came a mighty crack as one of the masts gave way beneath nature’s merciless onslaught and crashed to the deck.

Coming up the hatchway, Raine watched in horror as two sailors were swept off a yardarm by the howling gusts and blown into the chaotic sea. Others hurried to the railing, but the men had disappeared in the roiling waves. Cries of “man overboard” sounded faintly, but no one knew where to attempt a rescue in the blinding rain.

Raine turned to see Keir standing on the quarterdeck, the savage gale whipping his side-braids about his streaming face. He shouted orders to the men above him in the shrouds, seemingly unaware of the enormous wave approaching the ship on the larboard bow. Raine screamed a warning, but nothing could be heard over the mounting crescendo of the storm. The gigantic wall of water crashed over the
Raven’s
deck, and Keir vanished from sight. . .

R
AINE AWOKE, HER
heart pounding in terror at the vision she’d just seen in her sleep. Looking around in confusion, she realized she was alone in Keir’s big bed. Sprawled on her stomach beneath the covers, she wore his saffron shirt from the night before. And nothing else.

Disoriented, she rolled onto her back and gazed at the wooden panels overhead. She covered her face with her hands, trying to dispel the feeling of impending doom that sat like a weight on her chest. The terrible dream was a portent of things to come. The thought of Keir being swept away in a violent storm turned the blood in her veins to rivulets of ice, and she started to shiver uncontrollably. She drew the blanket up to her chin, forcing herself to let go of her fear for the moment and concentrate on the very real complications of awakening in Keir’s cabin, alone and practically nude.

Memories of the previous night flooded through her with all the impassioned emotions she’d felt. In spite of the frightening vision and all it might mean, a tiny smile curled her lips.

She had coupled with Keir MacNeil.

Then slept in his arms.

The king’s fiercest warrior and most feared privateer had taken her not once, but three times during the night, crooning love words in her ear—sweet, tender words she’d never imagined the ferocious chief of Clan MacNeil would ever whisper to any woman, let alone to the tall, skinny, gangly lass he’d known from her childhood. And the sensual pleasure he’d given her was beyond anything Raine had ever dreamed. Nothing in her sheltered life had prepared her for the wild, unbridled explosion of passion between them.

Who could have foretold that coupling with Keir MacNeil would bring mind-shattering, heart-stopping, soul-plumbing carnal bliss? During the long breathless hours of the night, Keir had encouraged Raine’s uninhibited participation in every voluptuous act he’d suggested. And she’d joyously complied.

Clearly, clearly, they’d been enraptured by the Tuatha De Danann at the stones of Calanais. Nothing else could explain the sudden and inexplicable change in their feelings toward each other. But no matter what happened in the future, she’d never, ever regret the marvelous night in his arms.

On the deck above her the clank and rumble of an anchor being weighed, accompanied by the shrill piping of the bosun, caught her attention. The familiar sounds of the
Raven
leaving her mooring brought Raine up to a seated position on the mattress. With a start, she felt the movement of the ship beneath her.

Oh, dear God above! They couldn’t leave Dùn Bheagain now! They would sail straight into the fatal storm she’d seen in her vision.

Raine found her discarded shift on the floor beside the bed. She pulled it on and held the torn edges tightly together. Racing to her own cabin, she quickly changed to her sailor’s clothing. There was no time to braid her hair, so she tied it back with a ribbon, then hurried through the passageway and out into the light.

Above her, Keir stood on the quarterdeck, talking to Abid al-Rahman. They were studying a navigational chart which the Moor held open in front of them.

“Laird MacNeil,” she called breathlessly as she raced up the steps to join them. Her heart pounded in fright that she’d be too late. “I must speak with you at once. Please!”

From the forecastle deck at the prow of the ship, Macraith called out, “All hands to make sail.”

The sailors raced up the shrouds and out onto the yards, where they waited for Adam Wyllie’s shrill
tweet-tweet-tweet
, signaling them to let loose the reefed canvas and sheet the sails home.

As Raine reached the quarterdeck, Keir turned to watch her hurry toward him, the warmth in his eyes beckoning her. “Lady Raine,” he said, “did you sleep well?”

Al-Rahman, attired in a long caftan and loose trousers, bent in a deep salaam, the twin hoops in his earlobes swinging gently. “
Sultana
,” he greeted in his precise diction, “may I wish you good morning.” Folding up the chart, he beamed at her and smiled, his teeth gleaming against his close-trimmed black beard.

Raine smiled and nodded to the handsome Moor, then glanced quickly around the ship. The ordinary seamen were busy with their usual tasks—swabbing decks, checking lines, splicing and knotting ropes—and paying no particular attention to the party on the quarterdeck. Frightened at the activity that signaled a return to the open sea, Raine met Keir’s gaze once again.

“Are you ready for breakfast?” he asked, clearly trying to maintain their previous manner in front of the others. “Cook’s been holding it off until you woke.” Nothing on his blunt, scarred features betrayed the fact that she’d awakened in his bed that morning. Or how she came to be there.

Raine shook her head impatiently. She touched his sleeve and then quickly jerked her fingers away when he frowned a warning. Did he think she was going to speak of last night in front of his crew? Surely he knew her better than that. “There’s something I must tell you at once, Laird MacNeil,” she pleaded.

The boom of the sails as the stretched canvas caught the steady breeze gusting across the loch interrupted all chance of conversation. The sound of creaking blocks, the rattle of lines, the groan of the ship’s timbers filled the air as the
Raven
heeled over, dipped her bowsprit into the sea, and then surged ahead with the grace of a Scottish deerhound.

At that moment, Macraith came to join them on the quarterdeck. “Lady Raine,” he said, his eyes twinkling with good humor, “I hope you’ve come to join us for breakfast.”

Raine returned his smile, though she began to tremble in alarm. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dùn Bheagain slip by on the starboard side as the galleon headed out of the loch on her way to the Little Minch. “We mustn’t leave,” she told Keir, her voice high-pitched in her panic. “We mustn’t leave yet. We need to wait here in the loch, where ’tis safe.”

His strong jaw covered with a day-old stubble, Keir glanced at her, then looked up at the clear blue sky overhead. “Did you forget something at the castle?” he asked, maintaining his air of dispassionate concern.

Last evening he’d worn the tartan of a Highland chief. Attired once again in breeches and knee-high black boots with his sheathed broadsword at his side, he looked every inch a pirate.

For a second, Raine debated whether she should simply agree with his erroneous supposition. But odds were, he wouldn’t turn back for such an inconsequential reason. He’d simply signal the
Hawk,
and Colin would fetch the forgotten item for her.

“Not that,” she said. She took a deep breath in an effort to control her rising sense of terror. “ ’Tis what I saw in my dream last night,” she explained. “There’s a terrible storm coming. We need to remain here in the safety of the loch.”

In the breeze, Raine’s hastily fastened ribbon came loose. Al-Rahman reached out to snatch the lavender band as it floated by and offered it to her. She tried to push the long strands tangling in her lashes out of the way, then gave up the attempt to tie back her hair.

“Don’t worry, Lady Raine,” Macraith assured her with an encouraging grin. He stroked his braided beard complacently. “The
Raven
has ridden out many a blow. She’s weatherly enough to swim through the worst of the elements. Forbye, there’s nay a gale out there that could sink her.”

“Oh, no,” Raine said, her soprano shrill with alarm. “Not the dreadful rainstorm that’s coming, I promise you! I saw it all in a vision. We cannot put out to sea!”

“That’s superstitious nonsense,” Keir declared, loud enough to be heard all the way up to the topgallants. He folded his arms across his massive chest and scowled. “No one can predict what will happen in the future, least of all by something so commonplace as a bad dream.”

What I see will come true,” Raine insisted. At his continued intransience, she stepped closer and tried to adopt a calm, even tone, though a quaking feeling started to churn in her belly. In her fear and agitation, her breath came in short, strangled huffs of air. “The danger . . . is very real. You’ll be swept . . . away by the tempest . . . unless we turn back for the safety . . . of the harbor.”

“I’ll hear no more about foul weather,” he insisted, his full baritone carrying across the entire deck. “No one can foretell the future. Only ancient crones believe in the second sight. And empty-headed lassies.”

“I am not empty-headed,” she said, stressing each word as her breathing gradually returned to normal.

Macraith and al-Rahman listened politely, not venturing to interrupt the heated conversation between her and their captain. But all around them, the crew began to mutter among themselves, and the words
storm
and
second sight
could be heard repeated over and over across the length of the galleon.

“Silence, fore and aft!” Adam Wyllie shouted. His long mahogany braid tucked into his belt, the tall bosun in charge of the deck crew glowered at the ordinary seamen. “Get back to your work!”

Keir took Raine’s arm and started to lead her toward the quarterdeck stairs. “Forget about this senseless folly,” he said, “and let’s go to breakfast.”

She balked, her voice rising hysterically in her frustration. “You must learn to listen to what I say, Keir MacNeil,” she cried. “I do have the second sight.”

Clearly irritated at her single-mindedness, he dragged Raine up next to him. Painfully aware of the latent power in his arms and hands, she was forced to tip her head back to meet his glittering eyes.

“Nay,” Keir answered through clenched teeth. “
You
must learn to listen to
me
, Lady Raine.” He jerked his head in dismissal to his uncle and al-Rahman. “Carry on, Mr. Wyllie,” he called to the bosun on the main deck below. “You may send the morning watch down to breakfast once we’re well under way.”

Keir placed his hand firmly under Raine’s elbow, holding her uncomfortably close. He hurried her toward his cabin and their waiting breakfast before she could say another word.

As he dragged her along, she could hear him muttering under his breath. “Damn it to hell. There’s none more superstitious than a sailor.”

Raine bit her lip, keeping her own scathing thoughts to herself. ’Twas fortunate she wasn’t wearing a gown. She’d have tripped on the hem. Then her bullheaded captor would have been forced to catch her in his arms or let her fall flat on her face. At the moment, she wasn’t certain which choice Laird MacNeil would make.

Raine glanced back over her shoulder.

On the main deck, every member of the crew stood watching them in brooding silence.

Chapter 18

Castle Calbhaigh

Loch Baghasdail

South Uist, Outer Hebrides

T
ORCALL
M
AC
M
URCHAID
H EYED
his brother-in-law, Archibald Campbell, earl of Argyll, with grave suspicion. They’d been circling each other like curs in a dogfight since the moment Argyll had entered the castle’s great hall alongside their host, Laird Allan MacRanald. The chief of Clanranald had issued the invitation to Torcall for a parley at Argyll’s behest.

Torcall had agreed to meet with his kinsman for one reason only. They both were dedicated to keeping young Donald Dubh Macdonald, high chief and lord of the Isles, out of the hands of Keir MacNeil and the king’s retribution.

However, Torcall didn’t trust Argyll enough to tell him that Donald Dubh was hiding on the MacMurchaidh galley moored in the harbor at that very moment.

“My friends, please, please, sit down,” Laird MacRanald said with an ingratiating smile to his guests. A short, stocky man, he had to look up at both of them. As he talked, his bald head swung back and forth like a weathercock in a changing wind. “Sit down, I beg you,” he insisted. “If we can set aside our past animosities and misunderstandings, I think we can come to an agreement which will profit us all.”

“Very well,” Torcall agreed as he took his place in a wooden armchair at the trestle table. Like the other two men, he wore his clan plaid with a broadsword buckled at his side.

Argyll gave a curt nod and sat down across from him, leaving the place at the head of the table for their host. From the wince of pain on Argyll’s face as he took his seat, it appeared the wealthy earl was suffering from gout again.

Ostensibly loyal to James IV, as master of the king’s household and ranking member of the Lords of Council in the Scottish Parliament, Argyll had been instrumental in stirring up the rebellion in the Isles.

Three years ago the councilors had abandoned the king’s initial attempts at appeasement and had turned to a policy of coercion, instead. Whether it had been his goal or not, Argyll riled the clan chiefs throughout the Highlands and Isles with his heavy-handed attempts to undermine their authority and push them toward the acceptance of Crown control of the lordship. Argyll’s machinations had resulted in the opposite effect. The Macdonalds and their allies rose up in rebellion.

Allan MacRanald clapped his pudgy hands and a servant hurried in with a tray of pewter goblets and a tall beaker of ale, which he poured and placed in front of the three lairds. Then the servant bowed and quietly left the hall.

Torcall had reluctantly accepted the bid to negotiate with Argyll, in spite of the knowledge that his kinsman couldn’t be trusted. “Well,” he said abruptly, “why are we here, Archibald? If you’ve come to sue for peace on behalf of the king, you’re wasting your time. I’ll sign no accord with a tyrant.”

“First of all,” Argyll replied with a sneer, “I’d like to know if my grandson is with you, and if he’s in good health.”

“Donald Dubh is not here at Calbhaigh,” Torcall lied without compunction. “The lad is with another clan chief for his own safety and for the cause of the rebellion. I can only say that your grandson is well and in the best of spirits. He’s being treated according to his status as high chief and lord of the Isles.” Tapping the tabletop with his forefinger, Torcall added emphatically, “You may be assured, my good-brother, he’s being given far more respect now than he received from your guards while imprisoned at Innischonaill.”

Argyll leaned forward, a contentious look on his face. His umber eyes glittered malevolently. “I placed my daughter’s illegitimate son in the fortress on Loch Awe for his own protection. I knew that if the Macdonalds or their allies ever got hold of the poor lad, he’d be used as a pawn by the rebellious clans. And in time he’d be captured, taken to Edinburgh and hanged as a traitor. So ’tis I, not you, Torcall, who has Donald’s best interests at heart.”

“My good friends, please try to calm yourselves,” MacRanald intervened. He lifted his palms in a gesture of supplication. “This bickering will do us no good. None whatsoever. Going over our past disagreements will never bring us to a solution of the problem we all face—namely, the continued safety of Donald Dubh and victory for the lordship of the Isles.”

“Indeed,” Argyll said, a sneer on his thin lips. “I’d be pleased with an explanation as to what the devil happened to the three Sassenach privateers I supplied with my own coin. Their captains were sent with orders to destroy MacNeil’s squadron. Had they succeeded, the blame for that bastard’s death would have been placed squarely on the English Crown, for no one in Edinburgh would suspect otherwise. We’d have ended the treaty of peace once and for all.”

“Aye, let’s start there,” Allan agreed and turned to look expectantly at Torcall.

Torcall glared at Archibald Campbell. “Hell and damnation,” he exclaimed, “you ken as well as I do what happened. I met the English captains at Port nan Long just as you’d proposed in your letter, where I provided them with a sea chart of the Sound of Harris. That sonofabitch MacNeil sent all three of those armed carracks straight to the bottom of the Minch along with nine hundred men loyal to the Macdonald cause.”

There followed a quiet lull, as the three collaborators remembered the personal friends and comrades-in-arms they’d lost in the tragedy at sea. Had the scheme been successful, not only would the treaty have been destroyed, but James IV would have declared war on England as well, seeking revenge for the loss of one of his favorite privateers. Namely, Keir MacNeil.

“There’s no sense sitting here bemoaning what’s already done,” Argyll said, breaking the silence at last. He fastidiously brushed a piece of lint from the sleeve of his doublet and offered his peculiarly humorless smile. “I suggest we decide where we go from here. We must keep my grandson safe at all cost.”

“The question is,” Allan said, “how do we do that?”

Torcall drained his goblet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gentlemen, I believe I have the answer. MacNeil has already searched for Donald Dubh at my castle at Steòrnabhagh and come up empty. ’Tis highly unlikely that he’d think of searching there again, at least not soon. I’ll be sailing from here in a few days once my galley has the needed supplies. I’ll take the young lord of the Isles under my wing once again, and we’ll retreat to the safety of Lewis.”

Picking up his black bonnet with the three plumes of a chief, Argyll pushed his chair back with a loud scraping sound. In his early fifties and gray-haired, he retained his solid warrior’s build. “I will return to Edinburgh at once and report to the Council of Lords that I believe the young pretender is presently with MacIan of Glencoe. The king will order the ships under MacNeil’s command to turn their cannon in that direction.” Leaning on his walking stick, he started to limp to the door, then paused and looked back at them. “A word of warning, however. King James would surely unleash all his fury on any man who killed Keir MacNeil. So I suggest that you make certain the blame never falls on your head. I believe I’ve made myself clear.”

“Oh, aye,” Allan MacRanald said with a knowing grin. “ ’Tis why you sent the Sassenach privateers to be rid of him.”

“Should by any chance the Black Beast’s Spawn come to Steòrnabhagh,” Torcall replied, “I won’t hesitate to kill the bloody bastard, and the king of Scotland be damned.”

F
OUR DAYS AF
TER
leaving Dùn Bheagain, Raine’s prediction of bad weather had proven false—exactly as Keir had expected. The summer sun had continued to shine down on the
Black Raven
as she glided out of the loch and entered the Little Minch.

They’d explored the jagged coast of Benbecula with its many inlets and islands, peering into the harbor of Griomsaigh for any sign of a strange sail. They remained constantly on guard, for there was no way of knowing if more English-built carracks had been dispatched into the Hebrides and were now lying in wait. Every afternoon Midshipman Ethan Gibson beat to quarters on his drum, and the entire crew participated in gunnery practice and preparations for boarding an enemy vessel.

Who’d sent the ships remained a mystery as well. Someone with a fortune to spend, that much was certain. But the purpose behind it wasn’t so clear, for neither the pretender, Donald Dubh, nor the traitorous chief of Clan MacMurchaidh had been on one of those damn privateers. ’Twould seem the Sassenach squadron’s only goal had been to destroy the three galleons under Keir’s command.

Although the weather had remained perfect, Keir had been unable to dispel the gloom of remorse that hung over his head since the morning they’d left MacLeod’s castle. He’d certainly failed to live up to his own expectations or those of his family and friends. Had Rory and Lachlan known what he’d done, his brothers would have been the first to condemn Keir’s self-serving behavior. For he’d taken advantage of a young, innocent lass, using her belief in magical enchantments as leverage to seduce her into his bed. He’d behaved like an ass. Worse, like Ruaidh Athaeuch MacNeil, the rapacious beast who’d sired him.

Keir had no right to touch Raine.

And goddammit, he sure as hell wouldn’t let it happen again.

After their private discussion four days ago, when Raine had tried to convince Keir that the
Black
Raven
was sailing into a horrendous storm—and he’d patiently explained that her wild speculations were frightening his crew, which he couldn’t allow, and refused to hear another word about it—she’d refused to spend another moment in his company.

Keir was left free, however, to wallow in self-reproach, unable to forget the haunting memories of the night she’d spent in his arms. Or ignore the painful surety that Raine would never have lain with him had she not been convinced that they’d somehow been bound together by the faery folk.

To tell the truth and shame the devil, Keir had bedded Raine under false pretenses. Not only did he feel guilty as hell, he smarted under the wound to his male pride as well. For without her unwavering belief in such lunacy, she’d never have chosen him as her mate. She’d made that clear enough at the royal wedding that previous summer in Edinburgh, when she labeled him an idiot for proposing to Lachlan’s pregnant mistress—not long after two of Keir’s former paramours indulged their jealous animosities with a catfight in front of the whole damn Scottish court.

O
N THAT FOURTH
day out of Dùn Bheagain, Keir invited Ethan and Robbie Gibson to join him for the midday meal in his cabin—an event that must have given the two lads pause, for they usually ate amidships next to the ordinary seamen’s galley. In addition he told them to remain after the dishes were cleared from the table. He wished to talk to them.

Macraith, Abid al-Rahman and Apollonius the Greek had also joined Keir for the meal. They discussed the possible places where the pretender, Donald Dubh, could be hiding as they enjoyed a hearty beef pie. During the lengthy conversation between the adults, the ten- and twelve-year-old middies had ample time to squirm while they examined their guilty consciences.

Raine had been included in the invitation as well, but sent word by way of Mr. MacFarlane that she preferred to eat alone in her cabin. Only Lady Raine Cameron would have the audacity to refuse a captain’s summons to join him for a meal. At sea such a request served as a command.

The Gibson brothers’ sea-daddy, Jasper Barrows, hurried into Keir’s quarters just as the
Raven
’s navigator and master gunner were leaving. The gray-haired bosun’s mate took his place behind Ethan and Robbie, who now stood in the center of the cabin directly in front of their captain. Onboard Barrows was responsible for teaching young midshipmen their duties. Macraith remained beside Keir, as well. As second-in-command, his uncle was ultimately responsible to the captain for the actions of every crewman on the galleon.

Like all the members of his close-knit family, Keir was fond of children. His wee nieces and nephews brought joy to everyone around them. But the charge laid against Ethan and Robbie by the
Raven
’s cook was a serious one. Keir stood in front of the two midshipmen giving them a cold, appraising look. A look reputed to leave able seamen shaking in their shoes.

“Cook has complained that food has been disappearing from his galley,” Keir told the lads with a severe frown, “and he believes you two are the culprits. As I’m certain you know, stealing food is one of the worst crimes that can happen at sea,” he reminded them. “Our supplies must be protected for the benefit of all. The punishment for a grown man is a flogging of fifty lashes. For a lad ’tis a whipping, which I’ll personally administer. I owe no less to your parents who placed the two of you in my charge.”

The youngsters stared up at him, wide-eyed and clearly frightened, but didn’t offer a word in explanation. Beneath their unruly thatches of hair—one bright red, the other deep auburn—their immature faces turned pale. They moved closer together till their shoulders bumped, as though seeking moral support in each other’s presence.

“If you don’t speak up in your own defense, lads,” Keir said, “I’ll have to mete out punishment, whether you’re guilty or nay.”

Ethan and Robbie peeked at each other. They likely knew that a thrashing from the captain would be applied with the full force of his considerable strength.

“We—we—we took the pudding, sir,” Ethan admitted, his voice quavering with fear, “but—but we didn’t eat any. ’Twasn’t for—for ourselves we took it.”

Keir glowered at the two pint-sized middies. “Don’t compound your crime with a lie,” he warned them sternly

“ ’Tis the truth, sir,” Robbie piped up, showing admirable spunk for a ten-year-old. “We didn’t take the plum duff and the sugar buns for ourselves.”

In his valiant effort to speak in his own defense, the color drained from Robbie’s chubby face, making the orange freckles stand out plainly on his pug nose. With eyes the deep blue of a summer sky, he stared up at his captain in obvious terror.