Captured by the Pirate Laird Page 7

  She toyed with the handle on her tankard. “I apologize for putting you out of your chamber. If there is a more suitable room…”

  He should have known he couldn’t fool her. “It is no great thing. We have been rebuilding the keep, and ’tis the most fitting chamber for a lady of your station.”

  “But it isn’t right. You are laird.”

  He held up his hand. “I’ll hear no more on it. Ye are me guest.”

  When the meal ended, the fiddler hopped up onto the dais and launched into a foot-stomping ditty with the piper following his lead. Tables were quickly pushed aside at the far end, and the hall erupted into a sea of dancers. What his clansmen lacked in technique, they made up for in exuberance with the men swinging the lassies by the crooks of their arms.

  Bran sidled up to Lady Anne, doing his own rendition of a gawky lad’s hornpipe. “Will ye dance with me, milady?”

  Anne pointed at Mara and John who were swinging in a circle with their arms locked at the elbows. “Do that? ’Tis nothing like a volta.”

  As she faced him, Calum caught a hint of lovely honeysuckle bouquet. He leaned in closer than decorum allowed, just to sample it once more. “Aye, but ’tis every bit as vigorous.”

  Anne clasped her hands under her chin. “I’m not sure I would be able to...”

  Bran tugged on her elbow. “Ye dunna need to ken how. Ye just need to have a bit ‘o fire in yer belly.”

  Anne glanced at Calum. “The boy isn’t going to allow me to say no.”

  He waved toward the dancers. “Go on. Ye’ll have fun for a change.”

  Anne gaped, but had no time to fire off a rebuke. Bran yanked her arm and dragged her to the dance floor so fast, she nearly stumbled over her skirts, but she brushed herself off with flair. Calum laughed out loud, though would have to have a word with the lad on controlling his high spirits.

  Calum reclined in his seat. He afforded himself few luxuries, but he did sit in a red-velvet upholstered chair in the great hall. It was from there he heard issues and petitions from his clansmen and where he took his meals. His father had done the same on Lewis. Though Calum’s lairdship did not encompass the same great number of people, there were still some two hundred souls under his protection.

  Calum nursed another tankard of ale while he watched Bran spin Anne around the floor. She tried to keep up as best as she could. Even Calum would have difficulty keeping time with the lad, though Anne’s smile lit up the room. She threw her head back and laughed as Bran kicked out a leg and spun her in a circle. When she stumbled a bit, Calum sat forward, ready to spring off the dais and cross the floor, only to ease back when she gracefully recovered and giggled pressing her fingers to her lips.

  It pleased him to see her having a good time. He wanted her to accept him, accept his clan. It shouldn’t concern him, but for some reason Calum cared a lot about what Lady Anne thought of him. And he wouldn’t allow a young lad to overshadow him on the dance floor.

  Calum waited until the tune was nearly over before he pushed back his chair and sauntered around the room to where Bran had absconded with the lady. When the dancers applauded at the end of the reel, Calum made his move and tapped Bran on the shoulder. The lad frowned, but knew better than to argue with his laird.

  Anne’s chest heaved as she caught her breath. Calum held out his hand and she placed her dainty fingers in his palm. “My heavens, I’m nearly out of breath.”

  Calum tried not to notice the rise and fall of the breasts which teased him over her bodice. “I shall endeavor to be a bit more genteel, milady.”

  Anne bowed her head and curtseyed. Och, every bit of her filled his senses with woman. He felt like a stag tracking a doe during the mating season. Calum took in a deep breath to clear his head. What the hell am I thinking?

  He led Anne in the dance with as much grace as the vivacious fiddling would allow. When the music stopped, the fiddler announced a strathspey. Calum took Anne’s small hands and leaned his mouth close to her ear so he could be heard over the crowd. “Ye’ll like this one. ‘Tis a bit slower.”

  They stood across from each other with a line of men on one side and the women on the other. The dancing had piqued the color in Anne’s cheeks and she looked as fresh as dew, sparkling in the glory of a summer’s sunrise. She gazed across the open space between them, her eyes alive with anticipation of yet another dance with unfamiliar steps. There was no need for her to worry. He could guide her through every footfall.

  The music began and Calum stepped forward, grasping her hands in his. By the suppleness of her movement, he could tell that she’d been trained to follow a man’s lead. She responded to every twist of his hand and turn of his foot as if she could predict each move. He would expect the daughter of an earl to have mastered grace and she followed well.

  He sashayed in a circle holding Anne’s hands. Her skirts tickled his calves. Anne’s sapphire eyes slid up to meet his. He swallowed. It was time to return to the line. His insides tightening, he didn’t want to release those rose petal soft fingers, but the music demanded it.

  Anne again stood across from him. The music and step sequence forced them to move sideways. He beheld another face, friendly, but not intoxicating like Anne’s. He locked arms with Sarah. They spun in a circle—Anne circled with Adair behind him. Calum wanted Anne’s hands back in his. He got his wish and her eyelashes fluttered with her giggle.

  This time he grasped her possessively. He wanted her to himself and when they sashayed, he could see no other face but hers. The music in his ears dimmed to a low hum. His breath loud in his ears, he pulled her in for the spin and the sweet bouquet of honeysuckle and woman flooded his senses. In that moment, time stopped. He stood motionless and held Anne inches from his body, staring into those eyes. She gazed back at him with an expectant fire.

  Adair tapped him on the shoulder. Calum begrudgingly released his grasp and turned to Sarah. The music came flooding back. He glanced over his shoulder and watched Anne as Adair whisked her in another circle. If only they could dance alone.

  Calum wished the fiddler could play a volta, then he would have an excuse to wrap his arms around her without bringing attention to his deep-seated desires. But this was not England, thank God. Calum picked up his feet and danced to the music of his kinfolk. That’s how he wanted it. Seeing Anne’s face smiling up at him while he took every care to swing her around the floor, filled him with desire aplenty. Hell, if he danced a volta with her, he’d have to go down to the beach and throw himself into the icy sea to cool off.

  To his surprise, when the music ended, Friar Pat tapped him on the shoulder. If it had been anyone else but the kindhearted friar with his careworn face, Calum would have told him to go jump in the bay, but he couldn’t very well say no.

  Anne’s eyes popped when she looked at his brown habit—fortunately the reformation hadn’t reached the island. “’Tis good to see the people of Raasay have a spiritual leader.”

  The friar took her hand and waggled his eyebrows. “Aye, milady. ’Tis a difficult job indeed, bringing the word to a heathen like the laird.”

  Calum looked toward the heavens. The friar had obviously had a few too many pints of ale and by his color, possibly a cup of whisky or two.

  Nursing a tankard, Norman watched Calum return. “Ye’ve got eyes for her.”

  “What the blazes are ye talking about?”

  “Ye like the sassenach wench.”

  Calum’s hand shot out and gripped Norman’s collar. He twisted it taught and muscled his face to within a hand’s breadth. “Watch your mouth.” He released the shirt with a shove.

  The wee blighter huffed, rubbing his neck.

  What business was it of Norman’s how he felt? Calum reached for the pitcher and poured himself another drink. “John leaves on the morrow with a missive for her husband.”

  Norman folded his arms. “’Tis no’ soon enough.”

  Calum took a long draw from his ale and slammed his tankard on the table. “Keep
your mind on yer own business, brother.”

  Norman shoved his chair back. “Her beauty has half the men in the room wanting to bed her. She’s a temptress. She’s no’ meant for the likes of you.”

  “Don’t ye think I ken?” Calum scowled into his drink. She’s no’ meant for the likes of Wharton either.

  However, Norman’s words struck a nerve. It seemed every man on Raasay wanted to dance with the beautiful and refined English lass. When Anne finally returned to the table, her coronet had been knocked from her head, her tresses hung loose around her shoulders—she looked wild and wanton. She could seduce the Holy Father with that wild mop of thick tresses flowing everywhere.

  Calum groaned.

  “Are you well, my lord?”

  Calum leaned back in his chair, his knees parted to the sides. “I’m fine, but it seems ye’ve lost a piece of yer costume.”

  Her hands went to her head. “Oh dear. It fell off a dance or two ago.” She stood. “I must go fetch it.”

  Calum gestured to the chair beside him. “Nay, stay and drink a pint of ale. Ye must be thirsty after having the entire clan spin ye around the floor.”

  She giggled and pressed her hand to her chest—just above those creamy breasts that had managed not to burst free. Calum swiped his hand across his mouth and forced his gaze away.

  The dance and the drink cast aside the stone façade the lady had worn earlier. Calum watched her, chatted with her, while his heart swelled with desire. Norman was right. The sooner she left Raasay, the faster he could return to the way things were—the way things ought to be.

  When the hall began to empty, Anne glanced toward the stone tower stairs. “I think I’d best retire.”

  Calum stood. “I shall escort ye.”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary.”

  “I insist.” He didn’t want to admit it could be dangerous for a stunningly beautiful woman to climb the stairs of the keep alone after the entire clan had partaken in a feast. Whisky had a way of pulling away men’s inhibitions where the lassies were concerned. That’s why Calum stuck to ale.

  Anne accepted his arm. The stragglers watched him lead her to the staircase, whispering behind their hands.

  “It seems we’re making quite a spectacle.”

  “Pay them no mind. They’re not used to seeing a fine lady like yourself in the keep.”

  “I saw a number of pretty girls dancing.”

  “Pretty, aye, but none have yer refinement.” He grasped a piece of her blue damask fabric between his fingers. “Or a gown as fine as this. ’Tis never seen in these parts.”

  “Ah. I am a bit out of place.”

  Calum clamped his jaw shut. She shouldn’t be there at all—Brochel Castle was no place for an English maid—matron. His heart thundered against his chest He walked the lady to his chamber, fighting an internal battle. How could he convince her to allow him inside—and how the hell was he going to resist if she did? The offending chamber door came all too quickly. Anne stopped and lifted her chin to face him. His stomach squeezed when her stare met his in the dim shadows of the landing. A slow burning torch danced shadows over her. A strand of blonde hair covered her sultry face. Heaven help him, he wanted to ravish her.

  “We made it the whole two flights without mishap.” Her eyes flickered in the light reflecting her amusement. She offered him a teasing smile.

  “Aye, milady.” His voice rasped.

  He grasped her silky smooth hands between his and raised them to his mouth. His tongue slipped through his lips ever so subtly as he kissed those dainty fingers. The sleeve of her gown slipped to her elbow, revealing the luscious white of her forearm.

  Hot yearning swirled beneath his kilt while he languidly smoothed kisses along the length of that silken arm. Anne’s muffled groan sent him undone. The thickening beneath his kilt shot to rigid. He stepped in and gazed down upon her lovely face. “I want to kiss ye.”

  Her breath quickened, but the desire in her darkened eyes expressed all. Taking her hands, he placed them on his hips. With one more step, he pressed his body against hers, molded to it as if God almighty had made them a matched pair. Calum lowered his head, and Anne’s eyes stared at his mouth, hungry.

  Gently, he touched his lips to hers. Anne’s fingers dug into his flesh. Her breathing quickened to shallow gasps, but her lips did not move. The realization that she had never been kissed shot through the tip of his cock like lightning. Calum stroked the parting of her lips with his tongue and dove into her mouth. Sweet, feminine, Anne didn’t resist. Taking her hand, he showed her how to caress his skin, how to touch him.

  Gradually, Anne responded. Her hands clamped around his hips and slowly crept lower. The tops of her breasts pushed into his chest. Calum wanted to feel more of her, but the stiff stomacher of her gown forced distance. If only he could unlace it and free her from her bindings—all of her bindings.

  His heart raced while he fingered an errant lace at the back of her gown. He rubbed the length of his body side-to-side in harmony with hers. She completely melted in his arms.

  Heaven help him, he needed to stop. Now. His breath stuttered as he pulled away. Her eyes glazed, her cheeks red with lust, she panted. As if shamed, she released hands and cast her gaze downward. “Please forgive me, my lord.” Her voice warbled.

  Calum caressed her cheek. “It is I who must be forgiven. Ye are far too delectable to resist.”

  “I must not forget the fact that I am married.”

  Calum’s gut clenched—must that offensive detail continue to plague him? “Of course.” He took a step back wiped his palms on his kilt. “I will endeavor to practice restraint, milady.”

  “Yes, we must.”

  Anne stepped into her room. When the door closed, the lock clicked. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to block the image of Anne undressing and releasing those breasts that had toyed with his sensibilities all night. He’d just kissed her—threw decorum out the window and had given into his lust. He was no better than Norman who tried to take advantage of every lassie in sight.

  Calum raced down the stairs and grabbed a bottle of whisky.

  He passed the friar, slumped in the corner with one eye open. “Where are ye going?”

  “To the stables. ’Tis the only place where I can forget a temptress with golden hair and sapphire eyes.”

  Once outside, Calum took a long draw of the whisky and coughed. Having Anne in his chamber for a month would drive him mad. He pictured her sleeping in his bed, lying under his bedclothes—alone. He took another drink. Och, one bottle wouldn’t be enough.

  Chapter Seven

  Calum’s scent lingered on everything. Each time Anne closed her eyes, she felt his lips caress her hands, travel up her arm and claim her mouth. She’d actually kissed him, turned to butter in his arms and allowed him to show her how. The worst thing? She had wanted him to do it, prayed he would—and now she’d had him swirl his tongue inside her mouth, she craved more. Every inch of her flesh screamed for Calum MacLeod, the pirate, to put his hands on her and flutter kisses across her skin.

  Sleep strayed from her grasp. Anne imagined him touching her with his rough hands, hands that wielded a sword and worked beside his men, hands that had shown her tenderness. She closed her eyes and saw John’s hand cup Mara’s breast. She brushed her fingers across her nipple. To her shock, a moist gush of yearning pooled at the most sacred apex of her body.

  With a moan, Anne flung back the bedclothes and paced the cold floor. A month? How will I endure this for a month? How can my weak flesh resist him? She stood at the window, pulled back the furs and looked out over the bay. The outline of wooden skiffs blended into the smooth grey-brown stones of the beach.

  Could she escape? What danger lay across the sound? This was northern Scotland, a land where barbarian’s lurked in the mountains. Without a guide, her chances of making it to England safely seemed slim. Could she convince Bran to help? Though only two and ten, the boy was nearly as tall as a man,
broad shouldered, as well. But Bran’s fierce loyalty to Calum gave her pause.

  Anne marched to the hearth and tossed a clump of peat onto the fire. Escape might be the only way to stop the yearning. But, did she really want to rush into Lord Wharton’s arms? She could not slip away without a plan. That would be foolish.

  In the interim, she needed to find something to occupy her time—and keep her mind off the devilishly handsome laird.

  Brochel Castle would have the same issues as Titchfield House, and by the state of the keep, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a challenging cause. She’d apply herself to the task on the morrow.

  ***

  “Are ye awake, milady?” a female voice asked.

  “Yes.” Anne tied off the stitch and snipped it with her sewing shears. “I was just mending a hole in the duvet.”

  Mara stepped inside holding a tray. “I brought ye some porridge. I thought ye might never come down.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought I’d mend some of these holes before the coverlet started molting. I should have gone down to the hall.”

  “’Tis no problem.” Mara pattered over to the table and set the tray atop. “Ye must be sick with worry, being a hostage and all.”

  Hostage? She hadn’t thought of herself that way. Mara looked at her questioningly as if waiting for a reply. Anne slipped into the wooden chair. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “Ye must yearn for yer husband something awful.”

  Anne couldn’t hold back her shrug. How could she yearn for a man she did not yet know?