The Highland Rogue Read online

  The pirates drew out their murderous crime, humiliating every prisoner with taunts, pilfering jewelry, clan pins, and any clothing worth a farthing from their bodies. Some men were completely nude as the pirates forced them onto the plank by point of bayonet. The most heartrending part? Every condemned soul looked Kennan in the eye with haunting stares of disbelief, silently pleading for help.

  Cuthbert, the loyal first mate, was the last of the crew from the Highland Reel to suffer humiliation. Bless him, he didn’t tarry and allow the bastards to plunder his effects. He took a running leap over the side to the roars of the crowd. “I’ll meet the lot of ye in hellllll!”

  After the dunking splash came from Cuthbert’s body hitting the surf, Jackson Vane cracked a switch against his palm, his grin growing more menacing as he sauntered toward Kennan. “Now ’tis your turn, O captain of the briny deep.”

  “You’re a vile excuse for a man,” Kennan seethed, baring his teeth. “There is no reason you could not have spared them—sent them off in a damned skiff for God’s sake.”

  “Is that so?” Vane glared with eyes as black and glassy as obsidian. “By your reputation I would have thought you more callous.”

  His reputation? Kennan had done a bit of pirating, but nothing to compare with Vane. “I have no idea to what you are referring.”

  “You stole into Versailles and plundered a man’s gold—quite daring of you. But I admire a chap with courage, albeit foolhardy. Tell me, why did you leave him alive?”

  The anchor in Kennan’s gut sank to his toes. Dear God, he should have ended the scoundrel’s life in France. Claude Dubois was a traitor and a snake. The man had tricked them all into believing he supported the Jacobite cause. Moreover, the bastard had lied his way into Kennan’s trust and stolen gold intended to support James Stuart’s succession to the throne of Britain. Kennan had merely taken back that which rightfully belonged to the prince.

  “Dubois is my Judas? Where is the thief?”

  “Waiting to watch you hang.” Dubois stepped out from the crowd, grinning wide as if he were proud of the missing front tooth—the gap left after Kennan had removed the upper central with a pair of tongs. “I’ve been waiting too long to claim my due.”

  The French cutthroat had deceived everyone. A spy for King Louis, Dubois had wormed his way into Queen Anne’s court with intent to stage a coup. Had he been successful, all of Britain would currently be a province of France.

  “Nothing was your due.” Kennan clenched his fists and took a swing even though the cur was beyond his reach. His effort earned him a yank from the noose. Coughing, he stretched his neck. “You stole the gold not only from me, but from Prince James.”

  “You were always inordinately gullible, Cameron.” Dubois threw his head back with a grating laugh. “I had you eating from my hand.”

  “And now you’re eating from mine.” Vane gave Dubois a smirk before he thrust up his hands and strutted in a circle. “What say you, men? Hang the Cameron bastard or feed him to the sharks?”

  In a heartbeat, the blood thrumming through Kennan’s veins turned as thick as mud. He’d most likely die if he walked the plank, but he’d never survive if he let these bastards string him from the mast. He glanced across the sea. A speck of land darkened the horizon. Was it too far?

  “Hang him!” came repeated shouts while Goliath flung the rope over the main boom.

  As the accursed beast reached for the rope’s end, Kennan dove for the dagger sheathed at the bastard’s waist, and slashed it across the pirate’s throat. In the time it took to blink, he raced for the plank, loosening the noose and casting it over his head. A musket cracked behind him just as he leaped. The shot seared the outside of his shoulder, tearing through his doublet and shirt, cleaving his flesh.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” he hollered, his legs still running as the sea approached.

  In the nick of time he pulled his feet together and pointed his toes. He crashed into waves as though he’d slammed into a stone wall at full tilt. Icy salt water engulfed him, attacking with the sting of a thousand wasps made even more excruciating by the freezing snow of Ben Nevis in winter. His breath rushed from his lungs as he fought for the surface, keeping the dagger tight in his fist. As his head popped through the water, musket balls pierced the waves around him with sharp slaps, far sharper than the pattering raindrops on his face.

  Taking in a deep breath, Kennan dived under, using every bit of remaining strength to swim away from his beloved Highland Reel. When he next surfaced, the ship had sailed too far for the sights of a musket. Waves crashed over his head while he treaded water, searching for survivors. And, as his teeth chattered, he spotted not a soul. Damn. Any men still alive would have started swimming two or three leagues back. And it didn’t take a seer to know when a man found himself overboard in waters this cold, he’d be lucky to survive for an hour.

  If there are any survivors.

  His stomach roiled, though all trepidation vanished at the sight of a dark gray dorsal fin fast approaching from the north. Then another. And another.

  Still clenching the dagger in his fist, he faced the sharks head-on.

  Chapter Two

  Divana tossed a clam into her basket, then took a moment of respite, leaning on her shovel and brushing the tendrils of hair away from her face. The sea was rough after the storm, and the wind still blew a gale. Though on Hyskeir, the wind never stopped. At best it was breezy, and oft blowing so hard that she had to lean forward and fight to walk a straight line. She ought to be accustomed to it by now.

  But she wasn’t.

  Mayhap one day I’ll be rescued from this isle and travel to a place where ’tis warm and sunny.

  Of course on the Hebridean isle, the only warmth and sun she ever experienced was the odd summer’s day, but it never lasted more than a fleeting moment.

  As she returned to her work, a sudden bout of gooseflesh rose upon her skin, and an odd sensation prickled her neck, as if caressed by the breath of a ghost.

  Inhaling sharply, she gazed out over the dark and menacing swells of the sea. Something glimmered on the water—something with eyes. Her heart stuttered as she stepped forward for a better glimpse, but as the waves crested and fell, the sea creature vanished.

  “Mischievous selkie,” she mumbled, pushing her shovel into the sand. No, Divana didn’t really believe in mystical creatures. If they did exist, she doubted she’d have been stranded on Hyskeir for so long without earning a wee bit of kindness. The fairy folk surely ought to see good in her heart by now. Oh, to imagine if they took her away on a fantastical adventure. Perhaps, if they were real, she would have been taken to the fairy kingdom to marry a handsome prince.

  But no. There she stood, hunting for clams. Alone.

  As the water filled her hole, it bubbled. At the sign of an escaping clam, she shoveled faster. “Where’d ye go, ye wee beastie?” With a few more scoops, she spotted the clam, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her fingers around the shell right before the slippery mollusk dug deeper. “Ye’re nay spiriting away this day, not from me, ye sprite!”

  With a chuckle, she tossed her prize into the basket.

  As she straightened, the ghostly sensation she’d felt on her neck returned full force. Gasping, she froze, her knees sinking into the sand.

  A man crouched at the edge of the surf, his hands on his thighs, a dagger in one fist. Stark, bloodshot eyes stared at her while he panted through blue lips. Water dripped from his hair and clothing. Blood seeped across his stomach, spreading through the fibers of his shirt.

  Clutching her shovel across her body, Divana sprang to her feet and skittered away. “Stay back!”

  The man’s eyes widened, though he made not a move. “Fire,” he said, his blue lips quivering.

  She glanced back to the bothy, smoke curling above it from the small blaze inside.

  “Blanket,” he said, his voice forceful and strained as he staggered closer.

  “But—”

  “Ple
ase,” he bit out sharply, crossing his arms and shivering like seagrass bent sideways by the wind. “I-I’ll nay harm you.”

  Divana gaped. She hadn’t spoken to another soul in two years, and now a large, half-drowned, bleeding man appeared from the sea without a boat. But before she thought of something to say, the Highlander set off, weaving and stumbling toward the bothy, his back hunched, water bubbling from his woolen hose.

  Gripping her shovel, she followed. Saint Columba, what ought she do? The wee shelter was her only refuge. “Stop! You mustn’t go in there.”

  Completely ignoring her, the ragged man continued toward her home, walking like a drunkard.

  Aye, it was the only place on Hyskeir one could escape the weather, though the thatch leaked and the wind whistled through the rushes—and on the coldest of winter’s days, the fire did nothing to warm the tiny hovel.

  She surged after him, ready to give him a good wallop. “That is me home. Mine, I say!”

  The fiend didn’t respond, just pushed inside through the worn sealskin shroud.

  Divana stopped and stared. Good heavens, what was she to do now? Where had this barbarian come from? Why was he bleeding? Was he a pirate? By the look of him, he was half crazed. Worse, he’d barged into her home uninvited as if he owned the entire isle.

  Regardless of what he’d said, what might he do to her? And why, after two years, couldn’t someone arrive with a blasted boat?

  She paced outside the doorway, clutching her beloved shovel.

  Should I smack him atop the head? What if I hurt him? What if I killed him?

  What if he is a good sort? And how will I ken?

  She shuddered, scarcely able to breathe. How could she hurt a man, even if he did barge into her home? She ought to at least try to ask some questions first. After all, the fellow had been wounded…but how had he sustained his injuries? What happened? Why?

  What if she went inside and he tried to ravish her?

  Divana’s stomach turned over as she ran her fingers across her mouth.

  That is me home he marched into like an overbearing brute. I ought not allow it. She pounded her shovel on the ground. I shan’t be cast from me own hearth!

  Divana inhaled deeply, summoned her courage, and marched through the doorway.

  “Saint Columba’s bones!”

  The scoundrel had removed his doublet and shirt and crouched over the peat fire with his hands extended. His bare back was riddled with white scars, and a vicious wound on his shoulder bled. When he turned, it wasn’t the mat of blond curls on his chest that drew her eye first. The man’s well-muscled stomach had been sliced open from flank to flank. Och, he’d been through the wars for certain.

  Divana clenched her shovel tightly. “Do not come near me.”

  His complexion green, he rubbed his trembling hands. “I need a blanket.”

  “Ah…” What should she do? Help him? Blast it, of course she should. Never in her life ought she turn her back on a soul in need. Not like her kin had done to her. Divana’s gaze shot to her pallet and the only blanket that wasn’t threadbare. “Very well, but ye cannot stay. This is me home.”

  Saying nothing, he swayed and dropped to his haunches. Is he sick with the fever?

  “Did ye not hear me?” she asked, her fingers twisting over the worn wooden shaft.

  “I’ll pay…,” he mumbled, his head lolling.

  A man of means? Not that money would be of any use here. She tilted her chin upward and narrowed her eyes. “If ye have coin, then why have ye washed up on the beach like a lump of driftwood?”

  “Pirates attacked…” A lock of his tangled hair fell over an eye. “Please. The blanket.”

  “Pirates?” That single word made a shiver course across her skin. Divana had heard tell about pirates pillaging and plundering the high seas. They were ruthless and savage. They were murderers.

  ’Tis a wonder he’s alive.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Divana took the coveted plaid from her pallet and held it out. “Use this, but as soon as ye’ve dried, ye must leave me be—”

  As she handed him the blanket, he slumped to the dirt floor, his eyes closed. Worse, she spotted yet another wound—big, ugly, and bloody, looking as if a sea monster had tried to take a bite out of his thigh.

  Puckered skin in the shape of an arc riddled his flesh like minced meat. Something shiny and white gleamed from one of the fissures. Leaning, Divana looked closer, then plucked away a tooth and held it up. Good Lord, this man hadn’t just been set upon by pirates, he’d suffered a shark attack.

  “Are ye awake?” she whispered.

  When he didn’t budge, she draped the blanket over him. Who was this soul? From whence had he come? Had he a good heart or bad? What horrors had he seen that had brought him to this remote isle? And now that he was there, what should she do with him?

  What if he died?

  Dear Holy Father, please. Not another!

  * * *

  Divana stirred the pot of kelp and water. Warm steam moistened her face as she leaned over and checked to see if it had begun boiling. There weren’t many herbs on Hyskeir, but her mother had oft used a seaweed poultice on cuts and burns. The only problem was she couldn’t recall if Ma had added anything but water to the mixture. Though even if she had, it most likely wasn’t available.

  “How are ye feeling?” she asked the man, but he gave no reply. The dank air in the bothy carried a new scent. His scent. A mixture of sea salt and musk. It was heady yet alluring in an odd way.

  After she let the mixture boil for a few moments longer, she ladled some of the thick, sticky muck into a bowl-size clamshell and set it aside to cool. “I’ve a poultice for your wounds, sir. Me ma always said seaweed staves off corruption, and I would not want your injuries to grow putrid.”

  The man lay still, stretched out on the dirt floor. His hair was nearly dry—a light brown color with wheaten wisps framing his face. In repose his was a braw face. Expressive brows arched above his closed eyes—dark eyelashes forming crescents on his cheeks. He seemed rather young, though deep lines etched the corners of his eyes and mouth as if he spent a great deal of time squinting in the sun.

  Divana moistened a bit of cloth and cleaned her hands with the lye soap she’d made last year. Then she kneeled beside the Highlander and drew the cloth across his brow and cleansed his face with gentle brushes.

  The Highlander’s nose suited his face—masculine, sturdy, rectangular. He drew in a breath through slightly pursed lips that were chapped so much, blood-encrusted scabs filled the cracks. Divana scooped a bit of duck fat onto her finger and ran it over his lips, surprised to find them full and pillowy soft beneath the abrasions.

  Though the stubble peppering his face had made him look dangerous at first, in slumber he appeared rather harmless. She folded the blanket down to his hips. The red and green plaid he wore was still damp, and he shivered, gooseflesh rising over his fair skin—far fairer than his tanned face and hands. The muscles across his belly were taut like bands of iron. Even his chest, rising and falling with each slow breath, was powerful yet riddled with puckered scars. He’d been savagely sliced across his belly. Divana peered closer. The wound hadn’t exposed his insides, thank heavens. She took his thick leather doublet and held it toward the light. It had been slashed right open.

  “I reckon this coat saved ye.”

  There was a jagged cut directly across his shoulder, but the flesh looked like minced meat.

  She retrieved the clamshell and blew on the poultice. “I do not reckon this’ll hurt.” Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, she shifted her gaze to his eyes. “But we’ll soon ken if it does, will we not?”

  The big Highlander didn’t move as she used her fingers to work the seaweed concoction into the wound on his stomach, being sure to glob it on thick. The mixture didn’t adhere as well to his shoulder and slid to the ground. Divana scooped a handful and held it against his arm for a time, then shifted her gaze to the blanket, beneath
which the shark bites needed tending as well.

  She felt herself blush as she bared the man’s thigh. Soft brown curls covered his leg from the ankle up his shin and then under his kilt. Though her blood stirred with curiosity, Divana didn’t dare push the wool higher. Heavens, he even had hair on the tops of his toes.

  “But that’s nay why I’ve exposed your leg, is it?” she said softly. To stave off her loneliness, she oft hummed a tune, and she did so now—more to slow the questions racing through her mind. Who are you? Where did you come from? What happened to the pirates? And how did you escape the sharks?

  All these questions plagued her, but she’d never uncover the answers if her poultice didn’t work. He might grow fevered, and such a thing must not happen. Fevered people died, and Divana knew more about death than most anyone.

  She stopped singing and looked at the man’s face. “Ye cannot die. Please…” She set down the clamshell and leaned over his bonny face.

  “Live,” she whispered while a haunting chill spread over her skin.

  Chapter Three

  Everything throbbed. The worst of his misery? The relentless pressure in Kennan’s head, but at least the damned shivers had stopped. He lay on hard ground, a shoulder blade grinding into stone, the smell of earth strong in his nostrils.

  Where am I?

  He hissed as clashing swords and booming cannons rang in his ears. Grunting, he ground his molars, reliving the fight, yet aware he was no longer aboard the Highland Reel.

  God blind me. How many of his men had perished?

  I should have been more vigilant. I should have sacrificed myself and my cargo before the battle began.

  Damn it all to hell, I should have drowned with the lot of them.

  What he wouldn’t give to bring his crewmen back. Every last one. Their lives were worth more than the treasure in the hull. More than his worthless life, for certain. The slice across his midriff burned as he relived the hell, tortured by the terrors from a mere hour of violent battle early that fateful morn. One moment he’d been fighting beside Lachie Mor, and the next, the old sailor had vanished—plummeted to the sea.