THE HIGHLANDER’S PIRATE BRIDE
Chapter One
Maryport, England
Soloway Firth
Early December 1300
Rona MacNeill crossed herself once then stepped from the dinghy to the stern of the largest merchant ship in port and wedged herself into the gap between the stern and rudder. Heavy fog blocked the night sky and prevented the ship’s crew from spotting her approach. The lazy slap of the ocean against the vessel rendered the soft noises she made undetectable. Rona smiled at the gloom, knowing the thick mists created perfect cover.
Her uncle handed her both her daggers and a knotted rope. “Ye sure about this, lass?” His low whisper barely carried to her ears. “’Tis nae too late fer us to find safer prey. In this fog we have our pick amongst these sea birds.”
Rona looped the rope over her shoulder, then pulled a black kerchief over her head and face, daggers bare-bladed in each hand.
She patted the ship. “Ye hear the bleating of the sheep as well as I, Uncle. Nae, this fat English lady and her contents shall see our clan through winter. The ship will bring a pretty coin when we sell her to the MacDonnell.”
She reached above her head and drove both daggers into either side of the wooden rudder. Using them as handholds to scoot upward, she placed her back to the stern, boots pushing against the rudder. She repeated the movements until she climbed to the top railing, then peered into the darkness for any sign of crew on the aftcastle. A lone sailor lay slumped against the helm, asleep on his watch. Swinging a leg over, she quickly hid in the shadows of the aftcastle railing, waiting for a reaction.
The crewman didn’t stir. Rona flipped her dagger in her hand, then drove the pommel into the back of the sailor’s head, sending him deeper into unconsciousness.
After tying one end of the knotted rope she’d carried onto a large cleat, she lowered the other end to Oran and her men. She crouched in the darkness and listened for movement, ignoring the cold. Laughter echoed from below as the public women Rona had hired offered their company and cheap whisky to the men guarding the pier. The whisky would warm their bellies and muddle their senses while the women kept their attention diverted this wintry night.
Once Oran and three other of her men stood on deck, she signaled Tomas to return the rowboat to their birlinn. He and the rest of the longboat crew stood by to tow the English ship out to sea. If their errand failed, they were close enough for a cold swim and quick escape.
With Rona in the lead, she and her men descended the ladder from the aftcastle onto the deck, keeping to the shadows. Two more crewmen stood port side toward the dock, likely listening to the women flirt with the guards. She and Broc knocked them out cold, catching the hapless sailors before they dropped into the water and gave away their presence. Carr and Arlen located another seoladair asleep at the bow, then slipped silently to a ladder which led below deck to make sure there were no other crew.
Arlen rose from below deck moments later and waved. Carr followed with another unconscious sailor slung over his shoulder. Rona nodded to Broc and Oran, and they released the ropes securing the cog to the dock.
Rona grabbed a rope coiled on the deck with a monkey fist knotted at one end and returned to the aftcastle. Uncoiling a few feet of rope, she twirled the monkey’s fist a few times before releasing it to where the rest of her clansmen had positioned their birlinn close to the cog’s stern. The knotted ball soared through the mists and landed with a muted thump on the birlinn’s deck. She tied her end to the stern cleat. Moments later, Oran joined her at the helm and handed over her fur-lined cloak.
She gave him a reassuring look. “The hard part’s done, Uncle. I’ll bet my share of the drink below we slip away like ghosties, without anyone hearing anything a’tall.”
Oran grinned and shook his head. “I’ll nae bet against the Black MacNeill.” He jerked his chin toward the prisoners. “What are yer orders for the captured men, lass?”
“Bind them and put ’em in the rowboat once we’re away.”
Oran descended the ladder to see it done. Rona kept the rudder steady as the ship backed from the dock. The oars of the birlinn worked in tandem with the waves to hide any sound they made. It appeared the holiday revelries had dulled the senses of even the most loyal sailor. She’d chosen the date well.
Once clear of the dock, she tossed the tow line down to Broc who secured it to the bow. Carr, Broc, and Arlen lowered the unconscious sailors into their old tender. They’d awake in a few hours with a headache, but alive. Leaving all hands alive was the Black MacNeill’s calling card.
Oran and the others headed below deck to man two of the massive oars, which normally required three men each. Though the fog covered their theft, it also meant no wind for sailing. Rona and her men had a long night ahead, but they only need clear the firth by full daylight. Once they entered the western part of the firth, she knew the north wind would find them.
She pointed the rudder toward the birlinn, allowing the crew to navigate. Huddling deeper into her cloak against the bitter cold, she smiled as she thought of the treasure stored below. The sheep and the price she’d gain from selling the ship were worthy of the risk they all took. Any foodstuffs would pad the clan larder, and all other goods would be sold or bartered for much-needed supplies.
The Black MacNeill they called her. ’Twas a bit of irony as her hair was as bright as the sun and her eyes the clear gray of morning mist. Her coloring and height spoke well of her Norse heritage. Covering her features with black cloth had suggested the name, and it had stuck.
The MacNeill clan was small but proud, claiming the Isle of Gigha as their territory, along with the tiny neighboring islands of Gigalum and Cara. They enjoyed a long history of piracy—one Rona and her cousins happily kept alive. They mostly ignored their Scottish neighbors and instead preyed upon the English, stealing from Longshanks every chance they found. This night’s theft was the boldest she’d attempted. They’d gotten away undetected, and with any luck would sail past the Rhins of Galloway before sunrise.
By morning, they’d rounded Cairngaan and the Rhins. As expected, the north wind made a forceful appearance, causing them to tack back and forth as they traveled north by northwest. No longer needing to row, her crew shifted to manning the sail while Rona and Oran took turns piloting the cog.
Oran stretched. “I’ll check the cabin and see if they’ve somethin’ to fill our bellies. Keep ’er on a straight course.” He clapped her shoulder as he passed. Rona fixed her gaze on the horizon, hoping the sun would bring a bit of warmth.
A sharp bark and a shout of anger yanked her from her musings. She darted to the rail and peered to the deck below. “Anything amiss, Uncle?”
Another bark and low growl parried Oran’s reply. “Damned dog! I dinnae know the captain kept a guard in his cabin.”
“It doesnae sound verra big. Does he give ye much trouble?”
Oran’s rumble didn’t quite reach her ears. She laughed.
A few moments later, Oran stumbled up the steps, pausing to shake a leg. He gained the aftcastle, a wee dog attached to his boot. It growled and tugged, clearly intent on inflicting damage.
Rona’s chuckles increased. “Och, Uncle, he’s scarcely bigger than a large rat. Do ye think he’ll get any bigger?”
“Nae if I have anything to say about it,” Oran grumbled. “Get by, dog.” He jerked his boot from the dog’s jaws. Panting heavily, the wire-haired imp stared at its prey before shifting his attention to the two interlopers on his ship.
He set up a frenzy of barking, high-pitched yips that undoubtedly would have carried far over the water were it not for the thick, enshrouding fog.
“Hush!” Rona hissed as she reached for the dog. Quicker than a striking goose, it leapt away, leaving Rona with naught but a tuft of hair and a scrape of sharp teeth.
“Damn!” She shook her hand, eyes narrowing on the creature which had just lost its status as cute.
It cocked its head, but ceased barking, tongue lolling out one side of its mouth.
“Cheeky little bastard, isn’t he?” Oran sat on a barrel and opened a bit of linen he’d folded around some hardtack which he shared with Rona.
“Lass, have ye noted the name of the ship, yet?”
Rona nodded thanks as she accepted the biscuit, breaking off a piece which she tossed to the little terrier. “Likely named after some comely wench.”
She stole a glance his way. One side of Oran’s mouth pulled in and upward as he often did when worried.
“Nae a comely wench, then. Mayhap a flower?”
Oran shook his head. “Nae.”
The dog sniffed the hardtack then licked it cautiously, a skeptical gleam in its eyes as it watched its new benefactor with suspicion.
Rona laughed. “Ye wee skunner. I’ll name ye Murdo for the terrible sea warrior ye are.”
Oran cleared his throat.
Rona shifted her attention back to her uncle. “What has ye puckered up like an auld woman?”
“We’ve stolen the Puthaid.”
“The Puthaid?” She tossed the dog another bite. This time he snatched it up eagerly and wagged his stumpy tail for more. “Nae Englishman would name his ship the Puffin.”
Oran rubbed his whiskers. “He wouldnae,” he agreed. “Makes ye wonder whose ship ’tis.”
Rona shrugged. “Nae matter. ’Tis ours now.”
“Aye. But fer how long?”
Rona grinned. “Until the MacDonnell shows us good coin for her. He can deal with any problems after that. She’ll nae longer be our worry.”
Oran dipped his head but didn’t appear happy.
Two days later, Rona strode into the main hall of the MacNeill keep in Ardminish village, Oran and Murdo in her wake. Her da huddled in his chair before the large fireplace, a blanket over his legs. He glanced up and a smile lit his face.
“Och, the Black MacNeill and her henchman return.” He gestured to chairs near the hearth. “Come. Sit. Tell me the tale of yer adventures. It appears ye’ve added one to yer crew.”
Rona and Oran each took a seat near the fire. Murdo trotted about the room, nose to the floor as he explored.
“A terrier. A keep can never have too many ratters. His name is Murdo.” She rubbed her thumb over the scraped bit of skin on her hand. “He bites.”
“Of course he does.” Laird Galen MacNeill eyed the dog warily then waved to a kitchen lad.
“Are ye hungry or thirsty, mayhap?”
Rona nodded. “We ate afore leaving the ship, but a couple of mugs of hot cider wouldnae go amiss.”
Young Hamish grinned then bolted to the kitchen. Rona waited to give her account until the lad returned. All the lads on Gigha cut their teeth on such stories. She knew the details of their trip would be soon told several times over as a score of clansmen had met them earlier to relieve the Puthaid of her burdens. Rona wondered how exaggerated the tales would be by the time the men arrived at the keep for the evening meal.
Hamish returned, red-faced and out of breath, with a pitcher and two empty mugs. Oran shot her a smirk then took the items from the lad and set them on the small table beside them. The boy sat on the floor, a whistle on his lips, a bit of meat in his hand. Murdo cocked his head then quickly approached the lad, accepting both a pat and the treat.
Others in the hall also gathered for the story-telling. Murdo adroitly avoided further pats and slipped beneath Rona’s chair where he settled, his gaze on the crowd.
Rona poured a mug for Oran and herself before topping off her da’s. She then settled in to hear of Black MacNeill’s latest exploits. Oran was the clan’s best skald, and the crowd was soon enthralled with his tale. She chuckled with his attempt to paint her as a ruthless pirate. What kind of pirate cuts no bloody swathe, and ensures the guards are treated as kindly as possible? This was only his second telling—she heard the first as they unloaded the stolen cog. By this evening, his third account would be even more dramatic.
Once Oran wound down, people went back to their chores and the preparations for the evening meal, smiles aplenty on excited faces. Laird Galen handed his mug over for a refilling. “Is she beached at the northwest bay?”
Rona nodded. “Aye. None shall see her unless we wish them to.” The northwest bay was a narrow inlet with craggy rocks on either side blocking the view unless someone sailed near the mouth. The deep water bay suddenly ended in a sandy beach, making it the perfect spot to hide ships. From there, off-loaded goods were hauled by wagon to the keep and outlying crofts.
“What’d she bring?”
“The cog is on the smallish side, but held fifty ewes, casks of wine and mead, barrels of dried fish, oats, and a few furs. There were also two large jars of some sort of sweet, thick jam. I dinnae recognize the taste. We gave them to Cook to see what he could make of it. I expect ye’ll see it on yer table in the morn.”
Her da grinned at the mention of sweets, but he quickly sobered. “Though I heard Oran’s tale, I wonder if we should expect trouble?”
Oran paused before he answered, then shook his head. “Nae, Laird. The Black MacNeill paid two, er, ladies to ply the guards with whisky. They dinnae hear us board the ship and the crew never saw who laid them out.”
“And, yet, ye seem uncertain,” Galen replied.
Rona chimed in. “Yer brother fears we’ve stolen a Scotman’s ship rather than an English one.”
Galen cocked an eyebrow. “And why would he fear that, daughter?”
Rona shrugged. “She’s named the Puthaid, nae an English name.”
“Ye dinnae think to take another ship?”
“’Twas dark with a fog thick as porridge. I dinnae know the name until halfway across the firth.”
Galen shook his head and pointed a gnarled finger at her. “Ye should have been more careful. We cannae afford to anger a powerful clan.”
For the first time, fear fluttered in her belly.
Oran scratched his beard. “I’ll see to it she’s renamed. Arlen’s kin by marriage live on Islay. I’ll send him to Aonghus Og to barter a price and have her off our hands afore Yuletide.”
Galen nodded. “Aye. ’Tis a good plan.” His gaze leveled on Rona. “Heed my words, daughter. Ye are responsible should any trouble come our way o’er this.”
She was tempted to deny any ill would appear. Hadn’t Oran just claimed the Black MacNeill always got away cleanly? Laughter silenced on her lips.
When did she start believing in her uncle’s tall tales?
She’d see to it her clan profited from their raid without bringing trouble to their shores. Somehow.
She rose and considered what must be done to rid themselves of the Puthaid. She considered setting it adrift, but knew her da would never agree to such a waste. With the Holy Days upon them, she hoped the MacDonnell was in a generous mood.
Galen took a sip from his cup. “We’ll use the coin from the sale of the ship for yer dowry.”
Chapter Two
Her da’s pronouncement sapped the strength from Rona’s legs and she collapsed back into her chair. Murdo whined.
“What?”
“Ye heard me, lass. ’Tis time ye married. Ye cannae play at being a pirate yer whole life. One of these days, even the Black MacNeill’s good fortune will run out.”
Rona tried to form a response, but nary a thought surfaced that would not offend her sire.
Galen leaned an elbow on his chair and regarded her with a pensive look. “I’ve heard from Laird Hamilton of Arran. He’s in need of a wife tae raise his weans.”
Rona rallied with a snort. “I’d be his fourth wife I know of. He’s an auld man, Da. Some of his children are older than me. He doesnae need a wife. He needs a minder.”
Galen gave a thoughtful nod. “Aye, he’s got a few summers on me. What of Laird MacDougall of Loch Ryan? His eldest son, Boyd, is a braw laddie.”
“Da, Boyd may one day make a fine leader and husband, but he’s still a wean. He’s better suited as a playmate for Murdo than a husband for me.”
Her da narrowed his eyes. “Ye’d have a hand in his raisin’. Help shape him into the kind of husband ye want.”
Rona groaned and buried her face in her hands, striving to regain her composure. She knew better than to raise her voice. Da would pick the worst of the offers just to spite her for arguing.
He sniffed. “I dinnae ken how many years I have left. Once yer Uncle Oran is chief and starts a family of his own, what then?”
Rona considered his words. Accommodations in their old keep were limited. She’d need to move out of the laird’s family chambers on the top floor. And go where?
“I’d likely find a croft near the ocean and help with the ships.”
Laird MacNeill curled his lip. “Help how? The clan allows ye aboard the ships ’cause ye’re my daughter. Dinnae expect the same indulgences once I’m buried.”
Rona’s good intentions fled at his dismissal of her efforts. “Those indulgences brought fifty sheep, food to help see us through the winter, and plenty of dry goods for trade.”
Her da leaned forward, eyes ablaze at her response. “Aye, and mayhap a powerful clan to our doorstep. I’ll ask about tae see if there might be other offers, but heed my words. Ye’ll marry afore spring. If ye dinnae make a choice, one shall be made fer ye. I want that cog sold and gone afore the new year.”
Rona stood and stiffened her spine. “Aye, m’laird. ’Twill be done as ye say.”
* * *
MacLean Castle
Morvern
Loch Aline
Pedr and Alex sat across the desk from the Baron of Morvern—their laird and da—Birk MacLean. Pedr glanced at his twin, hoping he had insight as to why they’d been summoned. Alex’s miniscule shrug told him he was as much in the dark as Pedr.
He tilted his head in their da’s direction, telling Alex, as the eldest and therefore the MacLean heir, it was his duty to address their da. Alex frowned then cleared his throat.
Baron MacLean did not let him speak. “We await yer ma.”
Pedr’s mind searched for what matter might require both their parents in such a formal setting and came up with nothing good. He couldn’t recall any trouble he or Alex had created recently, nor any their cousin Brant—learning to captain his own ship one day—had assisted in. ’Twas doubly ominous Brant hadn’t been summoned to his da’s solar as well.
He sighed. It would serve no purpose to question their sire further and would only provoke the bear.
His need to break the tension grew. “Do ye wish me to send for refreshments?”
His da scowled at the question, then nodded. “Aye. Yer ma would appreciate mulled wine and mayhap a small plate of sweets.”
Pedr launched from his seat and bolted for the door. Anything to escape the rising pressure in the room.
“Return immediately,” the baron barked.
“Aye, Da.”
Pedr took his time, bypassing two servants he could have charged with the task. Brant MacCain stepped from the shadows of a pillar, worry lining his brow. He’d inherited the MacLean clan’s dark eyes, but his reddish blond hair was proof of his da’s strong Norse heritage. Nearly the same age as Alex and Pedr by less than a month’s time, his easy-going, often mischievous nature and love of the sea marked him more like Pedr than Alex.
“Have ye learned anything?” Brant asked.
Pedr shook his head. “Nae. We await Ma, but I’ve been sent for refreshments.” He glanced about. “’Tis a good enough reason to leave Alex to handle Da for the nonce.”
Brant nodded. “Aye. If anyone can reason with him, Alex can.” He shrugged. “I think I’ll take myself off to the docks. The Dùdach Mara is coming along nicely and should put to sea for the next trading season.” His face softened as he spoke of the MacLean’s newest merchant ship.
Pedr cuffed his shoulder. “Hoping to be tapped as her captain, aye?”
Brant’s cheeks colored. “I’d relish the chance,” he avowed. “I’ve sailed the passage to Lebanon once with ye and saw things I’d ne’er dreamed of.”
“The MacLeans once laid claim to a large portion of land there. My great-greatgrandma was an Armenian princess.”
“What happened? Ma told some stories, and I’ve heard a few more since I’ve been here.”
“When my great-greatgranda returned to Scotland, he left men to run the castle and help set up his shipping business. My grandda still held the title, and he visited often.But nae long after he and my grandma Hanna wed, the entire Crusader state of Lebanon fell to the Mongols and Mseilha Castle was razed.”
“Have ye seen the site?”
“Och, nae much left to see. Romans built the first fort there, so the foundation’s fairly solid. A few bits of wall here and there.” Pedr drew a breath, remembering the awe he felt to stand where his ancestors had once lived and fought. “I’ll take ye there one day. Donal MacLean is yer great-greatgranda, too.”
“I’d like that. I’m verra glad to join MacLean Shipping. I’m happy to be named first mate until I have a few more years at sea and can earn my own ship.”
“Ye may get the chance,” Pedr replied, once again glum. “Whatever Alex and I’ve been summoned for, it doesnae seem likely Da is handing us his latest ship.”
Brant sent him a sympathetic look then hurried from the hall. Pedr watched with envy as his cousin gained the freedom of the bailey, then continued with his errand.
He lingered in the kitchen, drawing out the chore as he waited on his ma. He was no longer a lad needing to hide behind his ma’s skirts, but neither did he need to stew under the force of his da’s glower. He’d likely say something foolish to try and ease the mood. Da rarely appreciated his humor. Neither he nor Alex shared their da’s fierce personality. They both leaned more toward their ma’s calm manner.
Pedr spotted his ma’s wavy, dark hair and confident gait as she came down the stairs, and waited for her, arm extended. She smiled and grasped his elbow.
“Ah, my chivalrous son. Do not think I will give away yer father’s intentions for this meeting simply because ye play the gentleman.”
Pedr struck his chest with his fist. “I am wounded my lady mother would think me so underhanded. Did I nae recently swear to treat all ladies with great respect upon earning my spurs?”
Carys cocked a brow. “Mayhap ’tis years of watching ye use yer charm on unsuspecting females—from yer nurse as a wean to, more recently, the village lasses—that makes me wary.”
Pedr plastered a smile on his face to hide his embarrassment at her astute observation. He opened the door to the chamber and bowed, allowing his ma to enter first.
Baron MacLean and Alex rose.
Carys glanced at the men and shook her head. “’Tis like living amongst giants. My sons may share my dark hair and eyes, but they tower above me as does my husband. Even young Brant has the MacLean height.”
“Aunt Gillian is shorter than ye,” Pedr noted as he followed his ma inside the room.
Carys patted his cheek fondly. “Aye, she is.”
The men sat once she chose her seat. A gentle knock on the door announced a serving lad with a tray of refreshments, another lad with a pitcher and mugs.
Carys inclined her head. “Thank ye both.”
The lads poured and distributed the drinks before departing.
Pedr shot Alex a glance to determine if he’d learned more. Alex pursed his lips in the negative.
Birk smiled. “Lads, yer ma and I have discussed yer futures. Ye’ve both done well this past year, Pedr with the shipping business, and Alex helping me run the clan. ’Tis time for the next step.”
Carys leaned forward. “What yer da is trying to say, is we’ve invited a number of families from neighboring clans who have daughters of marrying age to join us for the high holidays. Neither of us had much say in our first marriages . . ..”
She cut a glance to her husband. Both Alex and Pedr knew the story. She’d had almost no say in her second marriage to their da, though it had worked out famously. Who didn’t like a ma who could guide her family and clan with a gentle yet firm hand—and best their da in sword play if he needed a reminder to not push her too far?
The hesitation passed. “We’d like to offer ye the ability to choose. The Holy Days provide an opportunity to host visitors and strengthen alliances.”
Pedr shifted uneasily in his chair and considered how to avoid his da’s ire. “I understand why ye wish Alex to marry and ensure the line, but why me?”
Birk’s eyes narrowed. Carys forestalled his response with a raised hand.
“Ye both have a score of summers. ’Tis time to think about raising yer own families. The two of ye have ever been inseparable. Yer da and I thought ’twould be easier if ye focused on the task at the same time.”
Pedr glanced at his sire. The restrained storm his ma kept at bay lay ready to erupt should he or Alex offer anything but an aye. Resigned to their fate, Pedr slumped forward, elbows on his knees, and nodded.
A scratch at the door interrupted and Birk shifted his glare. “Come.”
The dockmaster entered and touched his forelock. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’laird, m’lady, young sirs. ’Tis rather urgent.”
Birk waved him forward. The man strode to the desk then bowed and handed Birk a slate.
Birk’s face reddened as he scanned the writing on its surface. “Someone stole the Puthaid? My—ship? My newest ship?”
The dockmaster winced then nodded. “Aye, m’laird. The cap’n and crew just arrived this morn from Maryport. Someone subdued the crew on watch then slipped away in the night.”
“No one saw a thing?”
“Nae, m’laird. Cap’n says ’twas as foggy a night as he’s e’er seen.”
Carys rose then walked to the desk and picked up the message. “How many dead?”
The dockmaster scratched his head. “Weel, now, ’tis an odd thing, m’lady. Mayhap a blessing. The five left aboard were found the next morn trussed up in a rowboat floating near the shore. All complained of headaches and a few bumps and bruises, but none were seriously harmed. The cap’n is pitch-kettled.”
“Sounds like the Black MacNeill,” Alex offered.
The Black MacNeill was rumored to leave those he stole from humiliated but alive. Strange conduct for a pirate. He was surely more legend than fact.
The dockmaster shrugged. “Mayhap, young sir, but all ken the Black MacNeill only preys on English ships.”
Pedr jumped at the opportunity to be away from Morvern this Yuletide. “She was in an English port. Mayhap he mistook her as English. Da, why dinnae I talk with the captain and crew, then see to the search? Whoever the thief, we cannae let this insult pass.”
His da and ma shared a glance. Birk waved a hand. “Aye. Take Haldor and yer uncle Sten with ye. They’ve known Captain Shaw as long as he’s sailed for us, and any likely places a stole ship might be found.” His lips scrunched to one side, clearly struggling with a decision.
Carys raised a brow at Birk’s choice of assistance. The unspoken message was that their Uncle Sten and his son Haldor had been pirates before Pedr and Alex were born. They’d know better than any what questions to ask—and mayhap the best way to return a stolen ship.
Birk continued. “Take young Brant as well. He needs time aboard ship. Haldor is home for the winter, and I dinnae believe Sten, as the MacLean shipmaster, will appreciate pirates spiriting away a ship he’s just completed—especially on her maiden voyage.”
Pedr nodded, hopeful he’d found a way to escape the marital noose tightening around his neck.
His da pointed a thick finger his way. “Dinnae think to get out of the evening entertainments. Ye shall both be presentable for company each evening at supper.”
Pedr and Alex sighed. “Aye, Da.”
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