Romance in the misty Highlands...

 

One month earlier, Castle Dunrobin.

Aileen McAlpin shivered as she walked the halls of Dunrobin Castle. Flicking her venetian-red curls over her shoulder so that they tumbled almost to her waist, she pulled her fur-lined deep-blue velvet cloak close around her. No matter the fires that roared in the great hall and the lesser fire in her bedchamber, she was always cold in this forbidding place.

Perhaps she had not found it so cold when she first came to Laird Andrew Sutherland’s castle when she was a mere lass of sixteen. Now, ten years on, what she had once deemed welcoming grandeur was harsh and oppressive.

As for the laird? He had charmed her with his striking appearance, his lustrous dark hair, that even now only had a tinge of grey at the temples, and his sparkling brown eyes. They had now become cold and calculating. She huffed at the thought of his handsome looks and how they had seduced her. Now she only saw how they disguised a heart as black as night.

She’d quickly learned that what she’d taken for his confident manner, was in reality a terrible arrogance, a harsh certainty that he was always right, always in command and that to disagree with him would bring a swift punishment. The memory of his sharp dirk and the way he’d wielded it when she’d defied him made her tighten the gloves she wore at all times, that came above her elbows, hiding the deep scars from the slashes he’d inflicted. Every glance and every touch on her arms was a grim reminder of his repeated punishment for her defiance.

He’d meted out his punishment to her again and again, his knife slicing deep into her flesh. Some days it was a mere toss of her head that would bring his wrath. Perhaps a sigh, loud enough to send him into a rage. Or, on rare occasions when she’d had the courage to stand up against him and, with hands on hips, utter the dangerous word, “Nay!” his punishment had been especially cruel, his dirk cutting deep.

And, aye, she’d learned to hold her tongue in his presence, to keep silent in the face of his cruelty to others, and to obey the tasks he set for her without question, whether they be acts of piracy, when he wished to claim a treasure his spies had alerted him to, or merely to seek vengeance, realizing his wish to send a rival’s birlinn and all its crew to the bottom of the sea.

She sighed. Ah yes. She’d done all this and more to remain within the good favors of Laird Sutherland and avoid his rage. To do otherwise was sheer foolishness and Aileen MacAlpin was no fool. Yet the curl of shame in her belly was an insistent reminder of her ongoing servitude to the man.

After she and her father, along with her older brother, Gregory, were brought to Dunrobin she’d learned that swift punishment would inevitably follow disobedience. Her brother Gregory’s defiance had led to his death at Sutherland’s hands.

It had taken a little longer for her to learn that she’d been taken by Laird Andrew as recompense for her father’s debts. After that, the knowledge that her father’s life would be forfeit should she not carry out Sutherland’s orders to the very letter rested heavily on her shoulders.

She would meet a similar fate to Gregory’s if she failed in the onerous tasks he commanded from her and her crew.

Approaching the door of Sutherland’s solar, she flinched. If it was not for her fear for her father’s safety, she would find a way out of this hellish torment. She rapped with her gloved hand and waited for his response.

“Enter.”

His tall form stood commandingly in front of the fire and, as she walked in, he turned, looking her up and down, studying her as he proffered his hand.

“Come in, me sweet. Take a seat. I wish tae talk wi’ ye.” His voice was honey-sweet, belying his barbarous nature.

A tightness gripped her stomach. It was rare, indeed, for Andrew Sutherland to seek a formal audience. She was used to his demand that she spoke only when he wished it. He spent little time with her other than his dalliance with her in his bedchamber and she knew to keep silent in his bed. Her orders were generally conveyed to her by one of his henchmen.

Retaking his seat, he gestured toward a second chair. After seating herself, she looked up expectantly, hoping his words with her would be brief and she would soon be able to take her leave.

Staring into the fire, he steepled his hands. “I have a mission fer ye, lass.”

“Aye, me laird?” She drew in a deep, silent breath, exhaling slowly, preparing herself for his next command.

“’Tis an important task, and I trust ye, as me most able raider, tae carry it out. I cannae afford any mistakes.” His eyes took on their customary menace. “There will be a great deal of trouble tae come from this should things go awry.

“What d’ye wish of me?” She did her best to feign interest, leaning forward, looking up, meeting his gaze with her green eyes, nodding wisely as if she hung on his every word. No doubt he wished her and her crew to attack a merchant ship bursting with gold and treasure as they had done many times before. She stifled a yawn as he went on about the seriousness of the mission he was entrusting her with. Allowing him to see how much his droning words failed to excite her would earn his displeasure.

“I need ye to track a man who is causing me a great deal of irritation and costing me a fortune in the outer islands of the Hebrides. His ships have interfered with the route between the islands and the English coast.”

Aileen nodded at this. She was aware that several of Sutherland’s crews had been intercepted and their bounty taken. She understood that the island sailors were fast-moving and fierce fighters. Someone else was benefiting from the sweet trade of piracy.

She straightened her shoulders. This proposition had caught her interest. Sutherland would brook no competitor. If there was a man, or men, audacious enough to wreak havoc on his supremely profitable enterprise, then she wished to meet with such a man.

“And once I’ve tracked this man, what then?”

“Then, me dear, I wish ye tae take him prisoner and bring him tae me.”

“Where am I likely to find him?”

A sudden frown marred Sutherland’s handsome, aristocratic features. “I’ve heard that the men who are causing me so much trouble are members of Clan MacNeil of the Isle of Barra. I wish ye tae capture their laird, Everard MacNeil, and bring him tae me in chains.”

She was under no illusion as to the fate the Laird MacNeil would meet at Sutherland’s hands. Nothing less than torture and execution for daring to so openly defy the great laird.

She rose to her feet wishing for nothing other than to leave his presence. “I’ll take me leave then, me laird. Tomorrow me crew will make preparation and we shall be sail by nightfall.”

He stood and took a step towards her, running his hand down her arm, toying with her glove, the symbol of his power over her.

“Wait awhile, Aileen.” His voice was commanding. He’d brook no disagreement. “I fancy a wee moment of enjoyment wi’ ye.”

She managed to repress a shudder of revulsion as he took her in his arms and pressed a harsh kiss on her lips, his hands freely roaming her body.

She feigned desire, weaving her arms around his neck and toying with his dark locks. She accepted his tongue in her mouth, moaning a little as he took her, appearing for all the world the way she imagined a woman enamored and hopelessly lost to passion would be.

Damn him!

When she was at last granted permission to leave and return to her sparse, cold chamber, she was glad of this new assignment. It would take her far from Dunrobin Castle and the Laird Andrew Sutherland.

 

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Chapter One

November 1309

Ullapool, Scotland, near the shores of Loch Broom

Maxwell MacNeil rubbed his calloused hands together, savoring the warmth emanating from the fire blazing merrily in the smoky tavern’s hearth. Outside, the icy wind howled with the ferocity of a wolf pack, causing him to clutch his cloak a little tighter. He reached for the tankard of ale on the table in front of him and took a hearty gulp, his first sup of ale in months.

There was satisfaction in knowing his older brother, Laird Everard, would be well pleased when Maxwell relayed the success of their mission. He and his men would be homeward bound tomorrow and if Lady Luck was with them, in two days’ time they’d be dining in Barra Castle, basking in Everard’s gratitude and well rewarded for their troubles. There’d be rowdy shouts of approval from the clansmen, and fair-eyed lasses eyeing them with lust in their gaze. The ale would flow and the tales of battle would ring out through the castle’s great hall. Maxwell’s lips curled in a half smile as he turned to his cousin James Anderson, who was seated by his side.

“Aye lad. We’ll both sleep in the bedroom up the stairs. The good landlord has given us his room fer the night and found stalls for the men at the back of the stables.” He offered a grin. “I daresay they’re raising the roof with their snores by now.”

James chuckled, raising his pewter in salute. “Slàinte Mhath, lad. Tae yer good health. Ye’ve brought them all safe through the midst of battle and we have much to thank ye for. Ye’re a fine warrior and a good leader, Maxwell.”

Maxwell turned his gaze back to the fire. Such praise for simply doing his duty to his laird did not sit comfortably on his broad shoulders, yet it warmed his soul to ken he had the respect of his men. He finished his tankard and signaled to the tavern-keeper to bring him another.

Out of habit that his eyes made a sweep of the room. After all, who kent whether an enemy might be sitting too close for comfort? But there were few souls still at large and, save for one table in the corner, where a pair of men with grey hair were comfortably seated, chatting, and a noisy table of younger men who, in their worn britches and rough leather tunics, had the appearance of farmhands, there was only one other occupant.

A woman. Alone.

At once his attention was ensnared by the solo figure. She was seated at a small table near the doorway and, for all the world, was as calm as a summer’s day, quietly supping on a tankard. She suddenly turned her head and their eyes met. Perhaps she felt his eyes on her, or perhaps she had been drawn to him as he had been to her. Something shivered through him as he felt himself consumed by her green cat’s-gaze, her full lips parted in a teasing smile. He returned her smile and nodded.

If it was a challenge she was after, he was up for it. He’d had nay lassie warming his bed since they’d departed Barra all those months ago and he was more than ready to break the drought this night. His groin twitched pleasurably as he contemplated the prospect of bedding the lass.

She’d a glorious mane of red hair, liberally streaked with rose-gold, that flowed free over her shoulders, half-covering the hood of her fur cloak. His curiosity was piqued. He wanted her to rise to her feet so he could glimpse what the rest of her was like, although he was rather certain she was slim and sleek.

It was then he took heed of the gloves she wore that extended beyond her elbows. She toyed with the fabric, smoothing the green velvet along her arms, making him think of the velvet of her warm, bare skin as he ran his hands over it while she lay moaning with pleasure beneath him. There was that twitch again, stronger now.

Maxwell took his time to study the woman. She wasnae young, mayhap similar in age to himself – and he was fast approaching thirty. The softness of youth had fled and her face was clear-shaped, fine-boned, with a straight nose, dark brows and wide green eyes. Her cheeks were berry-brown, which spoke of time spent outdoors. But she’d nae the weathered look of a farm girl. Her smooth skin shone in the firelight, and he was taken by her elegant beauty.

James looked over, raising a dark brow as he caught the drift of Maxwell’s attention. “Aye lad. she’s a beauty. ‘Tis time ye enjoyed a little dalliance with a lively lass. Ye’ve thought of naught but battles long enough.” He cast Maxwell a mischievous grin. “And ye, big oaf that ye are, wi’ yer broad chest and yer ink markings covering every inch of ye, are just the very sort of lad the lassies go crazy for.”

This last was greeted with a grunt from Maxwell. “’Tis true, I’ve nae had room in me head fer any thoughts other than doing Everard’s work.” He glanced at the woman again. She had, by now, turned back to the fire. “But somehow this lass doesnae strike me as the kind who’d go crazy fer any man.”

James seized his tankard and swilled the last of his ale. “Well, there’s but one way tae find out, and that’s tae take yerself over to where she sits and bid her hello.” He rose to his feet. “I bid ye goodnight and good luck.” James gave a brief salute, turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Maxwell groaned. James was right, of course. It was not like him to be in the least reluctant to approach a lass in a tavern, haughty and elegant looks notwithstanding. Yet there was something about this woman that signaled she was different to any other woman he’d known. He gave his head a slight shake, dismissing his doubts. With the challenge of her smile uppermost in his thoughts, he placed his tankard on the table and stood, intending to see what possibilities the night – and the lass – had in store.

At that moment one of the young men who’d been drinking with his friends staggered to his feet and, obviously spurred on by the same thoughts as Maxwell’s, made his unsteady way toward the seated woman.

In three strides Maxwell reached her, just as the lad raised a burly arm and seized her by the shoulder. She went to twist away, but he held fast.

“Take yer hand off me.” Her voice rose in indignation at this unwanted intrusion.

“Ye heard the lady.” Maxwell gritted his teeth, his big hands curling into fists. He was used to dealing with battle-hardened warriors and this lad was a mere pup whose neck he could snap in a trice. “If ye value yer good health, I’d let her be.” His voice was quiet but well-oiled with menace.

The inebriated lad looked up into Maxwell’s gaze, his eyes suddenly fearful. The hand that had been gripping the woman’s shoulder abruptly dropped to his side. “Sorry milord, milady.” He gave a loud belch, turned and stepped back, before shuffling across to his friends.

Maxwell turned to the lass, a smile curving his lips as he anticipated her grateful response to his chivalry. But instead of a warm smile of thanks, her pretty lips turned down and he was met with a scowl.

“If ye’re expecting me to simper and thank ye for saving me from a discourteous yokel, ye’re much mistaken. I’m able to manage these foolish affronts without the assistance of a man.”

He took a step back, his eyebrows shooting up. “I beg yer pardon, lass.” He shook his head, “I intended nay dishonor to ye. I was merely offering me help before the situation took an ugly turn.”

She shrugged. “As I said, I can manage without yer so-called help.”

A rush of wickedness overtook Maxwell. So, she thinks she is too good fer me help daes she? He turned and snapped his fingers in the obnoxious lad’s direction.

“Here lad.” The churl’s head snapped up, a wary expression on his face. “I bid ye come back tae the lady. She wishes tae deal wi’ ye herself.”

She huffed loudly and cast Maxwell a snarl. “Ye’re too clever fer yer own good.”

He slanted her a sly grin. “So, after all, mayhap ye dinnae wish yer swain to return and ply ye wi’ his favors.”

“Mayhap I dinnae.”

“Nay lad.” He called, inclining his head in the woman’s direction. “The wee lass is nay interested in yer favors after all.” He chuckled. “Methinks, she prefers me company tae yers.”

She snorted, her green eyes flashing fire. “Prefer yer company? Think again fellow. I dinnae wish fer company at all.” Raising a defiant chin, she turned away from Maxwell and raised her tankard to her lips.

Unable to resist, Maxwell pulled another chair to the table and sat, signaling to the landlord to bring him another tankard.

“Ye’ll forbid me from taking a draught of ale wi’ ye then? Fer courtesy’s sake?”

She turned her gaze on him and something twinkled there, that, to Maxwell’s mind, could have been mischief. “I’d nae be discourteous to a stranger. Ye may take yer drink beside me if ye wish. But first…”

He lifted his head, his interest sparking. “First…?” he echoed.

“First I wish tae show ye how little I care fer yer pretense at chivalry. I challenge ye tae a match of skill, tae test ye against me and fer ye tae see how I am able tae better ye. ‘Tis time ye learned a lesson or two yerself.”

Maxwell rocked back on his chair.

What foolishness is this? The lass is challenging me tae physical combat!

His glance took in her form as she glowered at him. She was, as he’d imagined, slim and slight – although there were curves enough to please a lad. There was no way a lass such as this could begin to be a match for his warrior’s tempered skills.

“Well?”

He laughed. “I cannae wrestle wi’ a lass like yerself. ‘Tis nae fair tae ye.” He looked her up and down. “Why, I’m twice yer size, I would break ye like a wee twig if ye wrestled wi’ me.”

“Is that a refusal tae take on me challenge?” She pinned him with the intensity of her gaze.

He slowly shook his head. The only match with the lass that interested him was the one he envisaged taking place in a soft bed, where they both shed their clothes and lay naked. Then she could wrestle with him all she liked, rolling atop his broad nakedness, pressing her bountiful breasts to his chest—

“Why, nay.” He grinned at her.

If this is what she demands, she is welcome tae a defeat at me hands.

“Never let it be said I am a coward who refuses a challenge thrown at me. I’ll pit me strength against yers whenever ye wish.”

At that, she jumped to her feet, spilling a drop of her ale on the table. “Right. Ye’ve agreed and we shall fight.”

As he stood, Maxwell became aware that a hush had fallen over the tavern’s patrons and all eyes had suddenly turned on himself and the fiery-haired lass.

Across the room one of the old men raised a fist. “Ay! Let’s see a lass take down a big warrior.” He licked his lips, lending a salacious hint to his words.

The woman led the way through the tavern door to the cobbled yard outside. She turned to Maxwell, who followed close behind her, his mind whirling at the absurdity of the situation he found himself in.

“Here is a good space fer our bout.”

The two old men followed them out and a small crowd gathered. The rowdy lads appeared, solemn-faced now. The tavern-keeper stepped up to Maxwell.

“Milord, hand me yer weapons and yer cloak. Ye’ll nae be needing them.”

As he divested himself of his sword and dirk and handed the man his heavy, woolen cloak, he noted a young maid doing the same for the lass who was to be his opponent.

He stepped forward and the crowd grew silent. “I’ll nae partake of punches, kicks, or slaps. It wouldnae be seemly fer me tae raise a hand against a woman.”

There was a rumble of approval from the growing crowd and the woman shrugged. “I’ll nae abide by yer rules.”

Maxwell gave a short laugh. “As ye wish, milady. Me rules are fer meself. If ye are able tae land a blow, then good luck tae ye.”

The tavern keeper held up his hand. “At the count of ten, let the bout between ye begin.” He began counting and as he reached the word ‘ten’ the lass sprang toward Maxwell.

He swung his body to the side and, missing her mark, she darted past him, her jaw set in a determined line. Then, with a speed that surprised him, she swiveled and came at him again. Her booted foot was angled between his knees, catching him off balance, causing him to stumble. He raised an arm to parry a blow from her and caught it on his elbow with a grunt of pain. Before he could turn, she had twisted away from him and was crouching, her fists high, her eyes holding his.

It was then he realized the seriousness of the situation. This audacious lass was quick and fearless and intended to defeat him with both guile and strength.

“Oof.”

In the scant second it took him to gather his wits, she had darted forward and landed a blow to his solar plexus, almost winding him.

He straightened, growling and hauling in a breath. She was clearly enjoying this, her green eyes flashing with a warrior’s light. By the saints, this hell-cat was trained, as he was, and her skill was a good match for his.

If he was to spare himself the humiliation of being defeated by a mere lass, it was time he shed his chivalry and took charge. There was no denying she was skillful, but she lacked his strength and the battle-hardened ruthlessness no foe could withstand.

It was over in seconds. As she came at him again, he dodged and seized her arm, twisting it hard behind her. She moaned in pain but he tightened his grip and pushed her captive arm higher, bringing her to her knees. Bit by grinding bit, he forced her resistance to submit to his strength. Finally, in a lightning move, he had her face down on the ice-cold stones, his knee on her back, holding her there as the tavern-keeper counted to three.

Panting, Maxwell released her. “Ye fought well, lass.”

She rolled onto her back, supporting herself on one elbow. As she did so, the skirt she’d hoisted up to give herself more traction fell aside, displaying a long shapely leg and a charming glimpse of a bare thigh. Maxwell’s heart leaped at the arousing sight, but he averted his eyes, respecting her modesty, reaching a hand to assist her to her feet. As she rose, he folded her into his arms. For a long moment her body was pressed to his. Her warmth and the softness of her breasts rising and falling against his chest caused his wayward manhood to harden beneath his kilt.

He held her for a heartbeat too long, savoring the wildflower scent of her hair, the heat of her body and the indescribable, heady aroma that was her, musky and female.

Blood pounded in his temples as he held her, oblivious to the shouts of the gathered crowd. They were both panting from their exertions, their gasping breaths mingling in the icy air. Then the lass raised her head, her green eyes locked with his, and a wild spark of something hot, as sharp as a piercing blade, rushed between them, robbing what little of his breath remained.

She reached out, snaked an arm around his neck and leaned up. He dipped his head in answer to her unspoken demand and, without hesitating, her mouth took his in a kiss.

There was no restraint. The tension that had built between them in the tavern and during their physical bout, overflowed into a melding of pleasure and desire that rocked Maxwell to his core. This was a meeting of lips and tongues in fiery passion. He was oblivious to his surroundings, unaware of the jeers of the onlooking crowd, lost as he was in the wonder of her lips and the soaring, aching need to consume this wild creature, whose wiles held him captive. He tightened his embrace, pressing his hands to her well-rounded buttocks so that she rode against his hardness. He savored her answering pressure as she shifted her hips to accommodate him.

Then, all too soon, it was over.

He groaned, chest heaving in frustration, as she raised her head. Her eyes were shining dark in the lamplight as she calmly appraised him.

Damn. He could think of naught but bedding the lass but the room he shared with James was not the place to wreak his pent-up passion.

She moved out of his embrace and he groaned again. “Lass…” he began, “I’ve a sore need… fer a bed…” Pressing a finger to his lips she shook her head.

“I’ve a preference fer my own bed. Its feathers are soft and the covers are warm. Would ye care to join me there? Ye’d find it much superior to the hard straw mattress of the tavern.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I cannae resist such a fine offer. There is aught else I desire than tae while away the hours until daylight in yer company.”

She flicked her long, unbound hair over her shoulder and straightened her skirt. Then she reached for the fur cloak being proffered by the maid. “D’ye care tae follow me?”

Maxwell shrugged on his own cloak and hastily fastened his sword and dirk in his belt. He made a courtly bow. “Milady, it would be me pleasure.”

Without another word, the woman turned on her heel and stepped into the darkness beyond the tavern.

Heart pounding, Maxwell followed. It crossed his mind that he should let James know he was venturing into the village to continue his dalliance with the lass. But surely, he would approve. As the mysterious woman’s footsteps grew fainter along the path, he threw caution to the wind and took off, quickly catching up with her as she strode purposefully through the village.

She led him along one winding laneway and turned into yet another equally tortuous path. As he followed, his footsteps keeping time with the hers, he looked around, frowning. He had no idea where he was. One or two windows showed flickering candle light, but there was little to distinguish one lane from another. While the moon lit their way with a silvery glimmer, finding his way back to the tavern come morning would prove a challenge.

A little further along, they turned a corner and, after a few more steps, emerged from the tangle of village streets onto a broad stone jetty where a birlinn, in full sail, rode at anchor.

Maxwell paused, expecting the lass to complain they’d taken a wrong turn. Instead, she strode toward the vessel.

He followed her to the foot of a rope ladder descending from the deck, where a lamp hung, casting a dim light over the hull. She placed a foot in the ladder and grasped the rope.

“Come.” She beckoned him to follow.

“Wait, lass.” As she swayed on the rope in the dim light, her cloak floating around her, she could have been a wraith or a pixie or some other supernatural creature. Was she real?

“I didnae ken ye’d bring me to a ship.” Tales of sailors lured to their doom or men captured from villages such as this and forced to row endlessly in pirate galleys sprang into his head. “I’ll wager there’s nay feather bed on board this wee boat.”

“Why, me brave warrior, are ye afraid of the sea?”

“Me concern is nae wi’ the sea lassie. ‘Tis wi’ ye. Are ye a siren intent on luring unsuspecting sailors tae a salty death?”

She gave a tinkling laugh. “Ye’ve naught tae fear. Ye’re nae a sailor and the sirens are nay danger tae a landlocked warrior.” She pshawed. “And as fer the feather bed. When we’re alone, I wager ye’ll nae care a jot whether the bed ye’re lying on is made of feather, horsehair or stones.”

With a grunt of laughter, he reached a hand for the ladder as she stepped higher.

“Aye. Ye’re right, pretty lass, I’ll care naught fer a feather bed when I have me hands on ye and ye’re writhing in me arms, squealing and crying out in yer ecstasy, begging me never tae stop.”

Chapter Two

Aileen,

I write to remind ye of our pact. If ye value yer faither’s life, I trust ye will remember yer duty tae me. I wish ye tae bring me that upstart rogue Everard MacNeil, whose presence affords me great inconvenience and substantial sums of money. He would thwart the sweet business of piracy in which both ye and I are engaged. Dinnae delay. Bring him tae me so that I may deal with him as he deserves. 

I send me regards.

The Laird Andrew Sutherland.

***

Aileen took a deep breath to steady her racing heartbeat as she glided silently across the deck. Behind her she could hear the man making his way up the rope ladder, cursing as he went. She smiled to herself.

Landlubber.

She didn’t look back. She had bewitched him, and no doubt her coquette’s talk and the promise of bed would be enough to ensure he’d follow her.

For the briefest of seconds, she allowed the possibility that it was he who might have enchanted her, with his warrior’s chivalry, deep skill, and great strength. To say naught of the piercing blue of his eyes, the raven-dark hair that fell to his shoulders, the face carved from stone like some statue of antiquity – barbaric yet beautiful – and the images she’d glimpsed inked on his neck and shoulders. An eagle’s wing, a Celtic symbol, crossed blades.

It was too bad she’d been ordered to deliver Everard MacNeil to her nemesis Andrew Sutherland. No doubt the sadistic man would soon tire of torture and Everard would be summarily executed. But fulfilling Sutherland’s demands would keep her father alive. For now, at least.

She paused briefly at the entrance to the small cabin – hardly more than a rough-built shelter in the ship’s stern – giving the lad enough time to be by her side as she took a step up into the candle-lit room. The tiny space had room for only a simple table and chairs. Resting on the table was a thick, black, ebony rod.

Casting a glance around, her companion gave a snort of laughter “Why, there’s nay bed here at all, lass.” Before she could respond he had seized her in his arms. “‘Tis of nay moment. I’ll have ye on the table, or the floor. I dinnae care. But I’ll have ye…”

She felt his manhood, hard and long, pressing against her thigh and her blood rose in response. He claimed her mouth in a continuance of the desperate passion they’d shared after their bout. For only a moment she allowed herself to succumb to desire and return the fire of his kiss.

This surge of heat coursing through her at his touch bore no resemblance to the ice in her blood when Sutherland laid his hands on her. This was compelling, demanding. She wanted his touch rather than being repelled, as she was by the man who owned her. Surely, it could do no harm to revel in the rapture of their kiss for a few seconds more?

In danger of losing herself in his arms, she steeled herself to bring a cold reserve to the present. She reminded herself how she despised arrogant men such as this, who patronized her, failing to respect her power and her own warrior’s skill. Their confidence of their power as certain as the rise and fall of the tides. She’d taught him a lesson and now she would follow her orders. There could be no respite, no dallying with pleasure and desire.

As their kiss deepened, Maxwell’s hands slid down her back, pressing her to him. She shifted, her hand, reaching slowly behind her for the ebony rod on the table. Her fingers curled around it, grasping it tight. She paused. He seemed to have no inkling of her movement, or what was to come.

With a swift move she brought up her hand clutching the heavy rod and slammed it onto the man’s head. There was a faint crunching sound as the ebony hit home, his head flew back and he uttered a harsh cry. His hands fell away from her and he crumpled to the floor at her feet.

In a flash she was kneeling beside him feeling for his pulse, his heartbeat. His heart was reacting to the blow, its rhythm a trifle unsteady. But its beat was strong and she had no doubt he would suffer little more than a ferocious ache when he regained his senses. A trickle of blood issued from the back of his head where she’d struck him and, for half a jolt of time, she felt what might have been a pang of remorse. But this was quickly displaced by the satisfaction of having accomplished what she’d set out to do.

Her mission to capture Everard MacNeil had gone even more smoothly than she could have hoped. Except for her loss of composure at the inn and her reckless challenge to the impertinent sod, her plan had worked seamlessly.

She was getting to her feet when two others, a lass and a sturdy lad, slipped into the cabin. Smiling broadly the lass hastened to her side. “Ye’ve done it. Now we have our prisoner. Well done, Captain. Everard MacNeil is an important chief and ye’re nae the only one who would make a prisoner of such a man.” Her voice softened. “Yer faither would be proud of ye.”

Aileen brushed her skirt down, still somewhat dazed by the speed and ease of her victory.

“I appreciate yer words, me dear Finn, and I thank ye fer being by me side as ye have been since me braither’s murder. I could ask fer nay more trustworthy a pair than ye and yon Séamus.”

Finn turned to Séamus and gave him a wink. “Even if dear Sea is an Irishman.”

This brought an amused grunt from Séamus, who was already on the floor beside Everard, shackling his ankles and arms with stout chains.

“He might try. But he’ll have the devil’s job escaping these chains.” He unlaced Everard’s cloak and handed it to Finn. “Here, this is a fine piece of wool plaid tae keep ye warm through this icy winter.”

He unfastened the pouch Everard wore at his waist and placed it in Finn’s waiting hand. Then he pulled Everard’s sword from its scabbard and took the dirk from his belt. “He’ll have nay need of his weapons.”

While Everard slumbered, his three captors seated themselves at the table.

Séamus took out a flagon from the locker, poured three pots of whisky and passed them around.

“Slàinte Mhath.” He raised his tankard. “Here’s to our continued good health.”

Finn glanced uneasily at their prisoner. He lay prone, his arms and ankles held fast. She gave a slight shiver. “I’m nae so certain about this one. He looks a lot like trouble to me.”

Séamus shook his head. “Dinna fash lassie. He’s nae match fer us.” He dismissed the possibility without a second thought and turned his glance up to Aileen.

“What now, Captain? Dae we forge ahead to Castle Dunrobin tae deliver the prisoner to Sutherland? Or dae we deal with those slave traders we hold below, bound and tied beside the sleeping oarsmen? Should we rid ourselves of the scum before we continue in the morning?

Aileen sipped the whisky as she pondered Séamus’s question. They’d captured the three men when they’d overtaken a larger cog carrying furs and grain from the east.

The ship was also carrying slaves. Fair-skinned women from beyond the Caucus Mountains, bound for the Ottoman harems in the city of Edirne. They had freed the slaves, who had been grateful for their sudden unexpected luck, but now Aileen had to decide the fate of their loathsome slave traders.

She considered this. They’d taken the traders’ cog and all its bounty and her men had sailed it back to Dunrobin. Now the fate of the three captives rested with her. She felt nothing for them. As far as she was concerned the slavers were beneath contempt, their cruel trade condemning innocents to a life of unspeakable hardship.

“I ken ye hate the way these men sully the innocent, nae caring a fig for the pain and suffering they cause, all in the name of money and greed.”

Aileen snapped her fingers. Finn was right. These men had no right to live. If they were released, they would find their way back and resume their evil trade. Although there were many to step into their shoes, she had the chance to rid the world of a tiny part of its wickedness.

She shook her head, an icy calm descending over her.

“Once we’re at sea, we’ll toss them over the side.” In the chill waters of the North Sea there was little chance of survival beyond a few minutes. “Theirs would be my fate should our situations be reversed. I’m under nay illusion.”

Séamus cast a sideways glance at Finn who was regarding Aileen with a concerned frown.

“’Tis nay true, Aileen. Ye’ve a heart as big as…” He spread his arms to indicate distance.

Aileen grunted. “But nae big enough to spare the cruel and the wicked.”

“Aye. As ye say. It shall be done.”

There was nothing further to be said and Finn exhaled. The moment was over. “And then?”

Aileen gestured at their captive’s slumped form. “Then we deliver our prize to Sutherland. I daresay he’ll have a smidgen of gratitude for a job well done.”

Picking up Everard’s pouch from the table, Séamus loosened the tie. A small number of coins dropped out and he scooped them up. Then he extracted a folded piece of parchment.

“Is that a letter?” Aileen said. “Pass it tae me.”

Séamus, who found reading and writing to be unnecessarily difficult and had never really bothered to learn, passed the folded piece to Aileen. She smoothed it on the table and studied the hand-written note.

As she read, she sucked in a startled breath.

Finn shot her a wary look. “Is something wrong?”

Aileen let fly a string of curses. “God’s blood!” She slammed a fist on the table. “By all the devils in hell. We’ve got ourselves the wrong man. This isnae Everard MacNeil, but his braither, Maxwell. War Chief of Clan MacNeil.”

She ground her teeth. No wonder this man had had such an easy victory over her when they had sparred. His name was known far and wide. He was a great warrior, a leader, and a man who was feared throughout the Highlands and beyond. And every one of those inked images she’d glimpsed – that no doubt covered his entire body – represented a foe he had killed in battle.

Grabbing handfuls of her hair with both hands she rocked back in her chair, her mind reeling with the potential consequences of such a grave error.

It was Finn who put into words the thoughts that were rioting in Aileen’s head. “Oh, me God. The Laird Sutherland will be on fire when he discovers this.” She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “His punishment fer this error will be harsh.”

Séamus leaped to his feet, his hand already on his dirk.

“I can end the MacNeil now, Captain, if ye wish it. There’s none will ken. We can still capture his braither.”

His words hung in the air while Aileen wrestled with the impossible dilemma she found herself in.

It was in that moment an ear-splitting sound, somewhere between a groan and a roar, drew her attention to Maxwell’s prone figure.

His eyes shot open and he grimaced as he faced her. “Jesus Christ and all the saints in heaven, lass.” He struggled into a sitting position, his eyes darting from Aileen to Finn and then to Séamus. “Did ye have to hit me so damned hard?”

Her eyes roamed over the humbled but still defiant figure, observing the contours of his broad shoulders, his burly chest, and the strong arms now held fast in shackles.

She met his ice-blue gaze, sensing his rage simmering fit to boil. A shiver ran through her, at once heating and freezing her blood. For all his helplessness, Maxwell MacNeil remained a powerful man.

At that she made up her mind.

“Nay Séamus, we will spare him. Mayhap he will prove tae be of some use tae us, after all.”

Finn drew in a sharp breath. “Captain, is that wise? This will send a message to the MacNeil whereas before this he had nay sense of danger from us.”

Aileen allowed herself a moment to mull over Finn’s warning.

“Nay, Finn.” She shook her head. “’Tis too late tae undae what’s done. Sooner or later, Everard MacNeil will come after us. When he does, we’ll be ready.”

She turned to Maxwell. “Ye’re the prisoner of Pirate Captain Aileen MacAlpin.” She grinned. “Ye’re mine now, me fine big lad, and I’ll dae with ye as I wish.”

Maxwell’s eyes were riveted on her face, studying her with an intensity that made her quiver under his gaze and look away momentarily.

He laughed. A bold, brazen sound of ridicule that rang through the cabin. How dare he laugh at me when he is me prisoner. She half-raised a hand, wishing to slap away his mirth and the merriment written on his handsome face.

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