Chapter One
Sea of the Hebrides
Scotland, Spring 1311
Annora Munro was shivering, but it wasn’t the chill of the early spring breeze swirling up from Loch Moidart that was causing her to shake so. No, it was dread of the future that consumed her.
Today was the day she’d been living in fear of for the past two months, ever since her father, the Laird Graham Munro, had sent her here to Castle Tioram. The prison where she had been staying with her aunt and uncle awaiting the birlinn belonging to her betrothed.
Her time had run out, and she’d had no luck persuading her aunt or her husband, Laird Ranald, that she’d be happier there with them in the Highlands, than married to the ghastly old Englishman she’d been betrothed to against her will.
Aunt Beatrix shook her head when Annora begged to be allowed to remain at the castle.
“Dinnae be a foolish lass,” she had said, smiling grimly. “Baron de Radcliffe has a very grand castle, so I’ve been told by those who ken the place. He is an important man, lass, and ye’ll have a fine castle in yer charge.”
Ugh! The very thought of Baron Bertram de Radcliffe, his bony hands, cackling laugh and wrinkled visage made her queasy. She cared not a jot for his fine home and his favor with King Edward. But now word had come to Castle Tioram that her soon-to-be-husband’s birlinn was riding at anchor in the nearby cove awaiting her embarkation.
She pulled her fur-lined cloak close around her, raising the hood for extra warmth, covering her carefully braided coppery-hued tresses and hiding her face.
Blinking away hot tears she gazed around, taking one last look at the silvery waters of the loch and the far distant Castle Tioram, the forested hillsides, the pale pink morning sky and the seabirds wheeling overhead.
Her little party plodded on toward the sheltering cove where de Radcliffe’s birlinn awaited, ready to sail south to his castle near the coast of Cumberland. Every passing minute drew her closer to a fate she despised.
She considered putting her heels to her pony and attempting to outrun her two guards, leaving the big horse laden with panniers containing the gowns and items of her dowry, without a second’s regret.
An uncertain life here alone, despite the hardship that that would pose, was far preferable to becoming the possession of a man who cared nothing for her. Her stomach roiled. Her father had traded her like one of his prize breeding cows for the coin and allegiance offered by the Englishman.
In turn, de Radcliffe was gaining a toehold in the Highlands, where there was a great deal of opposition to the English King Edward.
She huffed quietly. The wretched, fearful man would not allow his birlinn to sail any further north for dread of it being attacked by what he’d called ‘Scottish barbarians’ and what she considered to be proud Scottish warriors. As a consequence, she’d been sent south to meet the birlinn to appease the man’s fear.
But then, as they began the descent to the cove, Annora spied two ships moored there. One was flying de Radcliffe’s flag alongside the English King’s standard, and the other had no flag she could make out.
Her heart jumped hard against her ribcage and she caught her breath. The two boats sitting at anchor were close beside one another. Mayhap she could find a way to board the wrong ship and from there flee.
She set to work formulating a plan.
When they arrived at the landing point, she pointed firmly at the ship with no flag.
“That is the ship I’m tae sail in.”
The older of her two guards tilted his head in the direction of the other ship.
“But mistress, the other one flies an English flag…”
She extracted a parchment from her satchel and waved it for him to see.
“It says here, “the ship has a band of red painted along the side. These are measures that have been taken fer yer safety. Ye are tae board the anonymous birlinn, fer if there are any possible attacks, they will be directed at the other vessel.” She pointed to the red marks on the along the larger birlinn as the man skeptically surveyed the side of the ship in question. Holding her breath, she handed him the parchment, counting on him not being able to read. It was a note from her aunt wishing her well for the journey and for her upcoming marriage to de Radcliffe.
The man peered at the parchment, nodding. “I beg yer pardon, me lady. Of course, I was mistaken.”
She blew out her breath as they dismounted. Once they’d loaded her panniers onto the waiting rowboat she stepped in and took her seat. They hauled the small craft into the water, jumped in and picked up the oars.
Given the early hour, no one was on deck of the other ship, and Annora thanked her lucky stars. The gods must have been on her side. It had been planned last minute that they arrive earlier than the English expected them to avoid problems with Scottish rebels who would have been alerted of the voyage, but she didn’t think it would go so smoothly. As her two men pulled their small craft alongside the birlinn a tall, gray-bearded man peered over the wooden hull.
“Who goes?”
The older of her two guards took off his cap and bowed from the waist, wobbling a little in the unsteady boat.
“We’ve the Lady Munro here tae sail wi’ ye. She’s tae be delivered safely tae yer master.”
Me God, what if he says he has nay idea who am I?
Thankfully, a smile lit the man’s lips as he looked her up and down. “Indeed,” he said, “The lady will please me master.”
A ripple of disquiet fled through her at his words, yet she pushed on, smiling bravely up at the stranger, who gestured to the rope ladder slung over the side.
“Aboard.”
With the assistance of her guards, she climbed the ladder and stepped onto the deck. The two sturdy men carried up her panniers and placed them beside her, as the stranger who had spoken earlier waved them aside and went to give his men orders to depart. With that, the guards, their duty done, scrambled back down the ladder and were soon rowing swiftly toward the shore.
She looked around expecting to the man she supposed was the captain to approach her, but could not find him. A sailor pulled up the ladder, the anchor was raised and the sails unfurled. Further along, at least twenty rowers took up their oars and within moments, even before the little boat carrying her guards reached the shore, the big birlinn was sailing out of the sheltering cove.
Keeping her head down as they passed de Radcliffe’s birlinn, she leaned over the side, fixing her eyes on the hazy, distant, horizon, hoping the queasiness would settle once they were well past the other ship and forging their way out to sea.
She stood, gripping the timber planking tight, her knuckles whitening, until gradually the nausea lifted, replaced by a wave of something like triumph at the success of her plan. She had escaped, despite the odds being against her.
Still, she remained watching until the Highland hills were nothing more than a small, dark, bump far beyond the ship’s wake.
Huddling against the chill Annora lined up her thoughts. She would ask the captain to set her ashore at their first landing. The small purse she had tied below her belt contained enough coins to pay for her passage and then some.
She would find work. She was adept at sewing and embroidery. She had made a point of spending time with the cook at Castle Tioram and had memorized enough recipes to feel confident if there was need for a cook. And she could read and write. There were many bairns whose parents would be glad their little ones could be taught these precious skills without having to spend years in a monastery or nunnery.
Feeling more hopeful, but growing colder by the minute, Annora hastened toward the prow where a cabin of sorts had been erected to speak to the captain and offer him her coin.
Hearing the murmur of voices inside she tapped on the door. Moments later she opened it and stepped inside.
The room was warmed by a brazier at its center, but dimly lit. She could just make out the figures of several lasses of similar age to herself or even younger, huddling on cushions close to the fire. The captain was nowhere to be found.
They all looked up as she walked in.
She waited by the door, uncertain of whether to join them.
A lass beckoned for her to sit on one of the plump cushions nearby. She moved in and lowered herself, grateful for the warmth.
The assembled young women greeted her with silence, staring at her through the gloom as if trying to make up their minds about her.
“Greetings,” she ventured, her throat suddenly dry. There was something about the scene that set her nerves on edge.
Who are these strange lasses?
Another of the group, whose long, fair hair reached over her shoulders and down her back almost to her waist, nodded to her and said “Have ye been captured, also?” The woman asked.
“Nay. I’ve nae been captured.”
An angry murmur rippled through the group.
“Did ye come aboard this cursed vessel of yer own free will?” the woman continued, her voice shrill with amazement. “Are ye intended fer the Sultan’s pleasure?”
The swirling sense of dread in Annora’s belly tightened into a painful knot. “The Sultan…?” she stammered.
“Nay. ‘Tis me intent tae ask yer captain tae place me on the shore at his next mooring.”
The woman threw back her head and laughed. “Ye’re mistaken. None of us may go ashore. Since we were stolen from our homes we’ve been kept here and have never seen the light of day. Ye’ll become a slave like the rest of us, why else would ye be on this ship?”
It was only then that Annora realized that each of the lasses was bound by a circlet of chains to the other. She gazed at them in horror.
“Ye are slaves?”
“Aye, bound in chains tae be taken tae the East tae satisfy the appetites of Sultan Osman, of the Ottomans. It seems he desires fair hair and blue eyes above all else.”
“And ye’ve all been…kidnapped?” Annora glanced around in horror.
“Aye.” The woman’s voice hardened. “I was ripped from me bed chamber and dragged tae the shore, where they clamped me in chains and forced me ontae the ship. All the lasses here share a similar tale.”
Once she was shackled like this there could be no escape.
“Who are these evil men?”
“Why, have ye nae heard of the Barbary Corsairs? They menace the coast, stealing us fer slaves.”
Annora’s heart plummeted. Somehow, she had to find a way to get away from that ship. For some reason they had not yet put her in chains, probably because they were busy setting sail and she posed no threat to them. But she knew she had very little time before they went looking for her. She stumbled to her feet clutching her cloak around her and made for the door.
Behind her she heard the woman’s laughter. “Ye’ll never escape except overboard tae feed the fishes.”
All Annora’s reason had fled. She had thought she was escaping a life enslaved to a husband she despised, yet here she’d found herself bound for an even worse fate.
This is far from luck!
Once she was outside the cabin, she leaned against the railing, breathing deeply, trying to steady herself while she vainly sought for a plan of escape. She knew, now, that her idea of being put ashore at the first port of call was in tatters. These men would never allow her to leave.
Peeking around the corner of the little structure she saw the man she recognized as the captain conferring with several other men further along the deck. She could see from their clothing that they were foreign. Each of them wore a turban wrapped on his head, their clothing was loose, and they had bare feet. Tucked into their wide cloth sashes were fierce-looking weapons like sharp, curved swords.
Annora drew back, hoping to remain unnoticed – at least until she could decide what her next move would be.
Looking around in desperation she found a small alcove where she could hide. She crawled inside and tucked her legs up, holding her cloak around her in an effort to keep out the biting wind. No doubt the captain would think she was with the other lasses and he’d pay her no attention as long as she was out of sight.
As the minutes passed, the ship kept up a brisk pace, the wind filling its sails, and Annora made up her mind that if they came close to land, she would slip overboard and attempt to swim to shore.
Even if she drowned it would be far better than giving in to what fate seemed to have in store for her.
It was approaching dusk and the sky was turning sunset gold when she dared to creep out of her hiding place and peer into the distance.
Squinting into the west her eyes made out the dark outline of hills against the setting sun.
This could only be the Isle of Skye.
Her heart was pounding, the blood roaring in her ears, as the ship drew ever closer to the shoreline.
Mayhap they intended to go ashore here in search of yet more captives.
She waited, hardly daring to breathe, as the coastline came into view. They were heading for a rocky cove directly ahead. She could make out at least two other vessels riding at anchor in the little bay. If they drew close enough, she could slip overboard and swim toward one of them.
Time seemed to stand still as the passing moments eked slowly by.
Before losing another second, Annora undid her cloak and removed the boots that would weigh her down, and crawled closer to the railing.
They were still in deep water but scarcely moving when she heard the splash as the anchor was lowered. If she was to have a hope of escaping, she had to act quickly, before the men left the ship and moved toward the shore.
She heaved up her skirt and petticoat and threw her legs over the railing, balancing on a small ledge as she prepared to throw herself into the sea.
To her horror she heard a cry go up followed by fast, heavy, footsteps along the deck heading in her direction.
I’ve been seen!
Sucking in a deep breath she struck out for the nearest ship, which, alas, seemed to be much further away than she’d first gauged. Through the sound of her own splashing, she heard shouts coming from the Corsairs’ vessel and realized that the men had followed her into the sea.
Having spent her childhood by the ocean she’d learned to swim at an early age. But this water was colder and unwelcoming, and despite her every effort, she did not swim with the slickness of a seal dressed as she was. She was floundering, her skirts tangling her legs, her arms losing strength with every stroke, and the men were gaining on her.
Drawing on strength she didn’t know she had, she kept herself moving through the water, straining her arms, frantically kicking her legs free of the restricting fabric, fighting with every last scrap to make it to the nearby vessel.
And then, wonder of wonders, she saw she was nearing the shore. A flicker of hope ignited, pushing her onward.
Yet the shouts grew louder. Her pursuers were almost upon her as she struggled for a foothold in the shifting sand beneath her feet. The waves, although small, rushed over her head, making her splutter, taking her breath away.
Before Annora could stabilize herself, a hand seized her arm in a grip as strong as a blacksmith’s vice. She screamed with every bit of breath still left in her lungs, struggling wildly against the man who held her fast.
He was dragging her back to the slave ship.
But even he was hard-pressed to manage her. As her heavy wool skirt dragged her down, his grip loosened and although she fought, bobbing up and then going under, her strength was ebbing fast. She succumbed to the water and the weight of her garments, and despite the hold on her arm, her head sank beneath the waves. She heard the man curse in a strange language, releasing her as the sea claimed her, pulling her into the depths.
Aware that the shore must be close, she made one last effort to kick her legs free, but it was no use, she was exhausted and the thought of drowning came almost as a blessed release.
Down she floated, her lungs filling with water, her eyes closed.
She was only dimly aware of the strong arms enfolding her body and the cold, crisp air on her face as she was pulled, gasping to the surface.
Again, a man was cursing, only this time it was in a language she understood. If she’d heard such blaspheming in her father’s castle, she would have flushed with heat and shame and hung her head, but now those forbidden words were the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.
He wrenched at her sodden skirts, ripping them away, so that her legs were finally released from the entanglement of fabric. Even in her half-drowned state, the touch of the man’s hand on her bare flesh rippled unaccountably through her, bringing a strange sense of embarrassment.
“Wrap your arms around me neck, lass. I’ll swim us tae shore. But be quick about it, if ye wish tae live.”
Chapter Two
Gulping in a desperate breath of air and coughing up a lungful of water, Annora grabbed the man’s shoulders as he swam strongly to the shore.
She marveled at the man’s strength and the way he’d come to her rescue without hesitation.
It was not far to the shore, but two men from the ship still pursued them.
The man’s feet touched bottom and he took a few steps until he was wading and the water was only up to his knees. Once they had made it to the shore, he lowered her and turned to meet the men scrambling on his heels, shouting fierce-sounding, unrecognizable, foreign words, brandishing their strange, curved swords.
Annora stumbled onto the rocky sand, coughing up water, spluttering mightily, rasping her throat. She curled on the sand, watching helplessly as the two assailants followed them onto the beach and circled her lone rescuer.
All that stood between her and an uncertain fate was this brave warrior.
One blow from those weapons could separate a man’s head from his body, yet her rescuer, a much bigger man than his lithe opponents, and with arms like tree-trunks, was every bit as nimble. While they might have evil-looking weapons, the man who had saved her drew a short-sword from his belt that was every bit as wicked.
The fight between the three men raged on before her as she crouched helplessly on the sand, her heart in her mouth, observing the battle. Praying silently, she shook all over, only too aware that her freedom – if not her very life – depended on this Scottish warrior’s strength and skill.
Still coughing, she closed her eyes briefly, too fearful to watch. At the sound of a piercing scream her eyes flew open to see one of the pirates falling, doubled over, his hands clutching his belly, blood pouring onto the sand. Her heart jumped. Now the odds had shifted in her rescuer’s favor. If only the man could prevail over his enemy, it was possible she would be saved.
Bent low, he circled his foe, and she was suddenly aware that this warrior was not only an imposing figure, but, despite the grim-set of his features, also darkly handsome. His nose was straight, his mouth generous and his jaw was chiseled marble. His wet hair slicked back displayed a broad forehead and dark brows.
His enemy whirled, his wet clothing spraying droplets of water through the air with the speed of his movement,
The painful knot in Annora’s belly tightened as her warrior—why dae I think of him as me warrior?— stumbled slightly, clearly put off by the sudden change of tactics. Yet, in a heartbeat he had miraculously regained his balance. The corsair raised his sword to deal a death blow, but the warrior moved with equal speed. The moment his foe raised his arms, he leaped forward and up, centering his sword so that it pierced the man above his belly, penetrating deep into his heart. The strike that would have ended the warrior’s life sliced his sleeve only a glancing blow. His opponent fell back, his mouth forming a silent ‘O’ of surprise. After landing with a thud on the sand, he lay prone at the water’s edge. He did not move again.
The Scot stood over his enemy until it seemed he was satisfied that the man was dead, then turned to Annora with a grim smile. In two strides he was crouched beside her brushing her hair back from her face.
“Thank ye…” she began, but her voice came out as an odd croaking sound. She shook her head and whispered hoarsely, “I cannae speak.”
He grinned. “Dinnae fash, lass. There’s time enough fer ye tae tell me yer tale. Fer now, we’d best be away from this place before more of the privateers come searching fer ye. Ye’re safe enough now, lass, yet they may still pursue ye. If ye wish tae accompany me, I’ll dae me best tae keep ye from harm.”
She nodded, unable to form the words.
He got to his feet and held out a hand to assist the still shaking Annora to stand.
She attempted to rise, but her legs had turned to liquid and simply crumpled beneath her, despite her best efforts.
With that, he sheathed his sword in its scabbard on his belt, hoisted her into his arms and, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a baby bird, strode across the rocky terrain toward a rutted track.
A sensation of disquiet rippled through her. The man who carried her was forceful and commanding and she was acutely aware of his strength and her own powerlessness. Had she escaped twice from enslavement only to become this man’s prisoner?
“I have lodgings further along, ye’ll be safe there. Tomorrow will be time enough tae decide on yer next move.” His tone was reassuring, yet she was not ready to trust another soul, despite the fight he’d made on her behalf. But her head was swimming and when she tried to speak, her throat felt as if it was stuck with a thousand sharp thorns.
Once they reached the rough track that served as a road leading away from the shore she managed to croak into his ear. “Ye may put me down, I believe the strength has returned tae me limbs and I can make me own way.”
She heard his soft chuckle, and then he lowered her, supporting her efforts to stand. It took a moment or two, but with determination she was able to move her legs and head along the path, keeping a hand on his arm to steady herself.
It was near dark as they progressed slowly along the path and there was no shouting in pursuit, only the soft cry of a nightbird and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. Annora began to believe they had successfully evaded her captors.
Finally, the inn came into view, a hanging lantern illuminating the sturdy entrance gate.
“Oh.” She gasped in dismay, stopping abruptly. Her legs were partly bare. All she was wearing was the tattered remnant of her kirtle overskirt and petticoat. Her heart skipping a beat, she felt around her waist and, to her everlasting relief she felt her little coin purse still tied there.
“I cannae be seen in such a state,” she wailed despairingly, as the full extent of her bare legs dawned.
Her rescuer remained unruffled. “Lass, ‘tis nay time fer foolish vanity, ye’ve come through an ordeal.” His lips quirked infuriatingly, although, in the dim light, it was difficult to make out his expression.
“Dinnae ye dare laugh at me.”
“Me apologies fer saving ye from drowning, lass. Would ye have preferred tae keep yer skirts and gone tae a watery grave fully clad instead?”
She issued a loud huff of indignation. “Of course nae.” She gritted her teeth and tossed her head.
“Well, then, dinnae say another word. I’ll see tae the landlord when we arrive.”
At the gate, he rang the bell, and then bent to scoop her into his arms, doing his best to keep the worst of her state of undress concealed by his loose shirt.
Somewhat mollified she wove an arm around his neck. The gate was opened by a burly, man with a shiny, bald, pate, a grizzled beard and a wide grin on his face.
He greeted them cheerfully and, paying little attention to the state she was in, he led them through a heavy oaken door.
He bowed from the waist. “Yer room is ready, milord, and yer men are already seated in the tavern enjoying our ale.” He gestured toward a room off to the side from where a rowdy sound of carousing could be heard.
“Thank ye. I’d be grateful if ye would show…,” he hesitated, glancing at Annora. “Show… er… me… wife tae the room.” The landlord raised an eyebrow as her rescuer lowered Annora to her feet at the foot of the staircase. She was grateful for the dim, concealing light.
Opening her mouth to protest at being designated ‘wife,’ she held her tongue when he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Of course, it made sense. If the men pursuing her should enquire – although she thought that unlikely – it was safest if she was believed to be his wife.
“Beg yer pardon, I didnae realize ye were travelling with yer… lady wife.” The landlord raised a brow.
“Ah, yes. We met with misadventures in our travels here.” He glanced in the direction of the noisy room to their left. “Did me crew nae mention the trouble we encountered with a privateer?”
Frowning, the landlord shook his head. “Ye’ve had a lucky escape by the looks of ye.” He gave a sympathetic tut-tut. “Those Barbary pirates are growing bolder by the day. Many of our fisherfolk’s daughters have been captured, and the rest of them have left the sea altogether fer fear of the corsairs. Those cursed blackguards have been raiding fer slaves up and down the coast and even across tae the Lordship of Ireland.”
“Aye. We’ve been lucky, indeed.” The warrior nodded and turned to Annora. “I’ll join ye in a few minutes, wife. I have business tae attend tae.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, looking for all the world like the very image of a concerned husband caring for his wife. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared through the door leading to the tavern.
Annora’s head was buzzing as she meekly followed the landlord up the stairs, too tired to ask any questions.
Warmed by a fire blazing merrily in the hearth, the room boasted one large bed which, to Annora’s tired eyes, looked supremely comfortable. It was spread with thickly quilted patchwork coverlets and plump pillows.
Wondering idly where the warrior intended to sleep, she could scarcely think beyond divesting herself of what was left of her salty, still-damp, clothing. It would be bliss to lay her head on one of those soft pillows and allow sleep to claim her.
She was still contemplating her next move when there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” Her voice had moved beyond a croak but still rasped her throat.
“’Tis me again, yer landlord. I’ve brought ye some nourishment.”
She opened the door and the landlord entered, keeping his eyes averted from the bare legs she’d not been able to cover. He carried a trencher with broth and a scattering of bannocks, which he placed on the table, tugged on his forelock and hastened out of the room.
Discovering she was ravenous after all, having had naught tae eat since breaking her fast at Castle Tioram before sunup, Annora’s mouth watered at the aroma of the fragrant broth and the freshly baked bannocks.
Caring nothing for her undressed state, she made short work of the delicious chicken broth, soaking up the last of it with the fluffy, bannocks.
Then, without further ceremony she peeled off what was left of her damp garments, save for her chemise and, after tucking her little purse under her pillow, she snuffed out the candles, lay down on the bed and pulled up the coverlets with a contented sigh.
She was asleep before she had time to puzzle any further about the stranger who had saved her and brought her to this mysterious place, or to spare a thought to where she might go from there.
The sound of the door opening and banging shut jolted her into wakefulness. She groaned and rolled over, the light from a candle causing her to blink. Her heart stammered as she made out the tall, broad, figure of her rescuer standing by the fire, warming his hands.
“What are ye daeing here?” Indignant at this intrusion, she raised herself on the pillows, the coverlet clasped around her.
He chuckled softly, “Why, I’ve come fer me bed, wee wifey.”
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