Black Raven's Lady: Highland Lairds Trilogy (15 page)

Barrows and Robbie came to join her at the rail, where they stood side by side watching the scene in horrified fascination. Smoke from the cannon drifted in the air, carrying the stench of sulphur.

“Don’t worry, Lady Raine,” Robbie said, his voice ringing with youthful optimism. “None can best our captain. He’s stronger than any five men put together.”

Raine smiled as she wiped away the tears caused by the soot and ash coming from the burning castle—and the terror she felt for Keir. “I—I know, lad.”

Through the drifting smoke, they could see the longboats carrying the landing parties. Oars were stowed and the craft dragged onto the steep, rocky shore. The seamen from the three galleons, led by their officers, charged over the broken ramparts and into the castle. Screams and shouts carried over the water, and Raine clutched the railing, her insides twisted into painful knots at the faint but unmistakable sounds of hand-to-hand combat.

Suddenly, the fortress grew eerily quiet.

“Look, my lady,” Barrows said, pointing to the top of Cairn na Bugh’s highest rampart.

Raine followed the direction of his finger and saw the pennant of the MacGillean clan being lowered. The royal flag of Scotland rose to the top of the pole. They could hear the cheering clearly over the water.

Her heart in her throat, she watched the
Raven
crewmen return in their longboats, as boats from the other ships of the royal fleet pulled toward the shore. Raine had learned earlier that the earl of Huntly would be in charge of taking all prisoners to Edinburgh for trial.

Several seamen were lifted up, unconscious, from the boats and over the gunwale. Then Keir came over the side, his shirt and breeches soaked with blood.

Fighting the nausea that churned in her stomach, Raine raced across the deck to meet him. His face was smudged with the grime of battle and his clothing reeked of gunpowder.

“Dammit, I told you to remain below,” he snapped before she could say a word.

“I—I did,” she replied, breathless from the fright that gripped her. “I—I waited below with Mr. Barrows until the shelling from the castle stopped.” She clutched his wrist. “You’re covered with blood. Are you hurt?”

He shook his head and gestured impatiently. “ ’Tisn’t my blood. Not much of it, anyway.”

“Thank God,” she said, barely above a whisper as relief washed through her.

“A few of the men have severe wounds to be tended,” Keir continued, watching his crew return to the
Raven
.

“Did you take any prisoners?” Raine asked, hurrying along beside him as he moved toward the hatchway.

Keir nodded absently. “Aye.”

“Was Torcall MacMurchaidh one of them?”

He shook his head, barely listening to her. His attention was focused on the four injured sailors being placed on boards and carried to an open hatch.

“Then he was killed?” she asked, her words hushed and breathless.

“Who was killed?”

“Laird MacMurchaidh.”

Keir stopped and studied her intently. “Why would you care about him, Raine?”

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her sight. “I—I don’t care,” she lied, dashing them away with the back of her hands. “I’m—I’m merely curious.”

“Nay, that damn traitor wasn’t there,” he said, continuing across the main deck. “And more to the point, Donald Dubh wasn’t there either, confound it.”

Raine brought her hands to her mouth, covering her cry of gratitude. “Oh, that’s unfortunate,” she mumbled through her fingers. But Keir appeared not to notice anything strange, for he turned to descend the hatchway before she’d even spoken.

Raine followed Keir down to sickbay, where the injured seamen had been carried. Barrows at his side, he moved to each man, quickly assessing the severity of his wounds. When he reached Ethan, he crouched on his haunches in front of the boy.

“How are you doing, lad?” he asked with a bracing smile.

“Fine, sir,” the young gentleman piped. “Lady Raine wrapped my leg and told me tomorrow I’d be good as new.”

“Never doubt it,” Keir told him, giving him an encouraging pat on the head. He rose to his feet and met Raine’s gaze. “Thank you,” he silently mouthed.

Macraith came into the cockpit. “Let’s see that arm,” he said to Keir.

“ ’Tis nothing,” Keir told him. “A scratch, no more.” But he perched on a sea trunk and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a deep gash on his forearm. “Perhaps a few stitches.”

“I can help,” Raine offered, “while your uncle assists Mr. Barrows with some of the others.”

For a moment, Keir gazed at her in silence, then tipped his head in assent.

“I’m going to apply a solution first,” she told him. “It may sting a little.”

Reaching for her satchel, Raine pulled out a bottle, uncorked it, and dabbed a small cloth with its contents. She patted the soaked pad gently on the open wound.

“Jesus,” Keir muttered with a ferocious scowl.

She smiled up at him. “I warned you.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Something Aunt Isabel concocted to wash away the grime and debris of a battle wound. That way we can see where to put the stitches and do a neater job. You’ll have a finer scar, that way. My aunt insisted on packing it in my satchel, along with my red velvet gown.”

“I might have known ’twas Isabel’s bitter creation.”

Raine laughed and shook her head. “Oh,’tisn’t Aunt Isabel’s creation, at all. ’Tis a faery remedy she learned when she was young.”

Keir’s forehead creased in disbelief. “Where the hell would your spinster aunt learn anything from the faeries?” he scoffed.

“From her grandmother,” Raine said, “whose grandmother before her lived with the Shining Ones when she was a young maid.”

“God Almighty,” Keir said with a soft laugh. “But I’m damn grateful to Isabel for packing that bonny red gown.”

Raine looked up to meet his gaze. In spite of the pain of his wound and the sting of the cleansing solution, his emerald eyes sparkled. His words had evoked the memory of his loosening the satin ribbons on her velvet bodice and suckling her nipples through the sheer material of her shift. He looked at her with such tenderness, she suspected he was remembering too.

A warmth spread through Raine, spiraling deep inside. Flustered by the unfamiliar feeling, she bent over the cut to hide her confusion as she sewed tiny stitches to close the wound.

Keir looked down at the top of Raine’s head. Her ebony hair parted in the middle, a single, long braid fell down her back, tied with a blue ribbon. He longed to place his lips on that severe part and then slowly loosen the interwoven strands.

He longed to spread her silken hair across her bare shoulders, then brush the strands aside to suckle her perfect breasts. He knew her small breasts were perfection, for he’d glimpsed the round ivory globes beneath her gauzy shift. Sexual hunger pulsed through him at the memory.

When she finished stitching his wound, Raine bent to snip the black thread with her teeth, revealing the elegant curve of her nape. ’Twas all Keir could do not to reach out and smooth his fingertips across her ivory skin.

“There,” she said, rising to her feet. “I doubt you’ll have much of a scar.”

He grinned. “Another scar more or less would scarce make a difference.”

“I’d better help Mr. Barrows now,” she said, turning away.

Keir caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, my lady.”

She smiled in surprise at his chivalry. “You’re welcome,” she whispered.

Keir watched the lass move away to help Barrows bandage another man’s shoulder. What could possibly be Lady Raine Cameron’s interest in the traitor, Torcall MacMurchaidh?

Chapter 13

F
OUR DAYS AFTER
the fall of the fortress on Cairn na Burgh Mòr, the
Raven
, the
Dragon
, and the
Hawk
returned to Calgarraidh Bay, where the captains and their officers conferred. After quickly replenishing their stores of fresh water and making any needed repairs, the three warships would sail south, skirting the islands of Tiree and Coll and then turn north-northwest into the Sea of the Hebrides once again—their objective to search for Donald Dubh, the self-proclaimed Lord of the Isles, and any Macdonald allies willing to fight under his banner.

The third morning after they’d arrived at Calgarraidh, Keir stood on the starboard quarterdeck, watching the crew prepare the ship to leave the calm waters of its natural harbor. The top-men scurried aloft into the rigging and moved out onto the yards, ready to unfurl the sails at Macraith’s command. Men from the morning watch waited at the capstan, about to lift anchor under the bosun’s supervision. Al-Rahman stood nearby with his rolled charts under his arm, while Stark Buchanan waited at the tiller, ready to steer the galleon out of the bay and past the Isle of Coll.

Keir watched Raine come up the companionway and hurry to join him in spite of Barrows repeated warnings that absolutely no one was allowed to disturb the ship’s captain while he was on the quarterdeck—unless he called for them.

Unperturbed by her inability to follow protocol at sea, Keir smiled a welcome. Some things weren’t worth the fight.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said, and then immediately became aware of her worried look. Raine’s expressive eyes were shadowed, as though she hadn’t slept during the night. Her ivory complexion lacked the glow of rosy cheeks. Her hair, usually braided tightly, streamed loose over her shoulders and blew about her face in the breeze. She looked as though she’d just got out of bed.

“You mustn’t leave Calgarraidh Bay this morning,” Raine stated in a breathless tone. “A fleet of ships is lying in stealth, waiting for you.”

“Don’t worry, lass,” Keir replied, reaching out to push aside the strands of ebony caught in her luxuriant lashes. “There’s no force on the sea that can defeat our ships. We’re going to find the rebels, no matter how strong their forces. And at the present moment, there’s no sign of a sail on the horizon. Not for as far as a man can see from the topmost yard.” He smiled and added, “I know that for a fact. I’ve already been up there.”

“But there are enemy warships lying in wait for you,” Raine insisted, scowling at him. “I saw it in a vision.”

Keir propped his hands on his hips and shook his head. “A vision? What kind of a vision?” he demanded, trying to tamp down his irritation. When would Raine finally give up this improbable belief that she was a seer?

All around them flourished the activity of a ship about to leave harbor as the anchor was weighed and secured.

“Make sail,” Macraith called.

Simon Ramsay, the lantern-jawed quartermaster, repeated the order. “Make sail!” he shouted.

The men in the shrouds let fall the topsails which were immediately sheeted home. The
Raven
caught the wind and surged forward like a great white bird freed of its cage.

“My vision came in a dream,” Raine persisted, “as they often do. During the night, I dreamt that the
Raven
was attacked by armed carracks.”

Unaware of their conversation, Macraith continued giving orders. “Pipe the morning watch to breakfast, Mr. Wyllie.”

The bosun’s shrill piping barely began before a stampede of feet hurried toward their watch’s mess.

“I don’t believe in visions, Raine,” Keir told her, listening in satisfaction to the familiar sounds of his ship getting under way. “Nor am I afraid of a surprise attack. The Macdonalds and the other rebellious clans sail in oared galleys, not carracks. Your dream can’t possibly come true. Our squadron will stay together. Both Colin and Fearchar are veteran seamen. We can outmaneuver and outfight anything on the sea.”

The
Raven
gathered the wind in her sails and burst ahead, soon moving at six knots or better.

“You know that I have the second sight, Keir,” Raine insisted, grabbing his shirtsleeve as though afraid he’d walk away. “You were there at Archnacarry when I described the fortress of Dhòmhuill, where Rory’s wife was being held captive.”

“Your description of gargoyles along the parapets could have described a half dozen castles in the Isles,” Keir said, trying to rein in his mounting annoyance. “ ’Twas mere luck that Lady Joanna was in the first Macdonald fortress we stormed.”

“Not just any gargoyles,” she insisted. “Eagles screaming into the wind with arrows clasped in their talons. Dhòmhuill is the only castle with those particular gargoyles on the parapets. You have to admit that.”

“I admit to nothing,” he told her with a cynical grin. “Magic, faeries, the second sight—they’re all foolish beliefs held by our ignorant forebears, who claimed the Tuatha De Danann inhabited Scotland before the coming of mankind.”

“You’re the one who’s foolish!” she cried, her dark eyes enormous in her pale face. “If you don’t heed my warning and remain here at Calgarriadh, we’ll—”

“Raine, look around you,” Keir interrupted, his patience wearing thin. “We’re already leaving the bay. If there’s an enemy fleet somewhere out there, we’ll find it and we’ll be victorious.” He took her elbow and turned her toward the companionway. “Now let’s get some breakfast, shall we?”

A
WEEK L
ATER,
despite Raine’s vision foretelling the approach of hostile ships, the look-outs in the tops of the
Black Raven
and her consorts hadn’t spotted a single sail on the horizon. In the waters west of Mull the three men-of-war had nosed past the islands of Coll and Tiree and sailed out into the Atlantic Ocean, searching for any sign of the Macdonald traitor and his allies. Now they’d come about and were heading north toward the Sea of the Hebrides.

Shortly after the midday meal, Raine gathered her small box of sewing tools and tapped on the door of Keir’s quarters. He opened it at once, for she’d explained at the noon sighting that it was time to remove the stitches on his forearm.

He made no attempt to refuse her entrance—as she feared he might—but stepped aside with a welcoming gesture and ushered her in. “Barrows can do this,” he told her for the third time that day. “There’s no need for you to continue nursing my wound.”

“I know,” she replied with an impatient shake of her head. “But the stitches I made are quite fine, and I have the small hands and tiny scissors to remove the thread without removing your skin with it.” Trying to hide a smile that threatened to spoil her serious mien, she added with intentional provocation, “Unless you’re afraid of me, Captain MacNeil. In which case, I promise to be as gentle as possible.”

The sea-weathered corners of his eyes crinkled as he tipped his head back and burst out laughing. His long black hair, the side-braids fastened with strips of leather, along with the gold hoop swinging from an earlobe, gave him the aura of an insolent pirate. “The day I’m afraid of a wee lassie like you, Raine,” he chortled, “will be the day I’m laid in my grave.” He started to roll up the sleeve of his ruffled white shirt. “Come do your worst,” he added, still chuckling. “I’ll try not to beg for mercy.”

“You’ve made your point,” she snapped, frowning in exasperation. He’d always had a raucous sense of humor. “There’s no need to keep laughing at your own idiotic jest.”

That sent him into another bout of guffaws. Apparently, the sight of her acting like a petulant shrew tickled him down to his bones.

But mercy to heavens!

The sound of his rich, deep baritone seemed to wrap around her lungs, squeeze the air right out of her chest, and push it up into her head—where it whirled around her brain and buzzed in her ears.

When she spoke, her voice sounded high pitched and ill-tempered. “We both know very well I couldn’t hurt you if I tried,” she scolded. “I’m anxious to see how the wound has healed, and it’s certainly time for the stitches to come out.” She pointed to the game table in front of the tall stern windows—where he’d fleeced her out of the few coins she had left—and her next words came sharper than she’d intended. “Sit over there in the light.”

Although he continued to grin at her obvious discomfort, Keir submitted to her directions and placed his bandaged forearm on the tabletop for her inspection. Raine pulled up a chair and scooted closer till they were sitting knee to knee. He was dressed in doeskin breeches and shiny leather boots. She wore her borrowed outfit of worn striped shirt, loose fitting trousers, and scuffed shoes.

Raine unwound the cloth covering his injury and ran her fingertips lightly over the stitches. No sign of oozing puss nor the red puffiness that would indicate something was wrong.

“Ah,” she said with a sigh, smiling in satisfaction. “ ’Tis healed beautifully.”

Raine had insisted on inspecting Keir’s wound several times after the battle at Cairn na Burg and had always been pleased with its progress. Since the age of twelve, Raine had been Aunt Isabel’s ardent student in the potions and ointments known to healers. ’Twas gratifying to learn her studies hadn’t been in vain.

Bending her head over Keir’s muscular arm, Raine began to carefully snip the precise row of stitches. She tried to focus all her attention on the delicate task, but his masculine presence proved overwhelming. Keir wasn’t simply larger than most men. He had the commanding air of a natural-born leader combined with the physical stature and strength of a Celtic demi-god. He was Cúchulainn and Fionn MacCumhaill and Manannán mac Lir, all combined into one magnificent warrior.

“The crew is very impressed with your ability to tend their wounds,” Keir said quietly.

Without raising her head from her task, she shrugged. “Most women have some knowledge of the healing arts. Indeed we must, as long as our menfolk continue to wage war.”

“My sailors believe you have more than the ordinary share of skill in mending wounds,” he continued. “Mine wasn’t the only gash you sewed, and all their injuries have healed without a trace of diseased flesh nor scarcely even a scar.”

At his words, Raine felt a warm glow spread through her. “ ’Tis gratifying to know they’re regaining their strength.”

“Barrows told me how you helped him set Will MacElvie’s broken arm. And how the salve you put on Davidson’s burn from an overheated cannon barrel healed the injury almost miraculously.”

“To be honest, I’ve never set a broken limb before,” she said. “Barrows told me what to do. I simply followed his directions.”

“Most young lassies would have fainted at the sight of so much blood and gore,” Keir added, his voice warm with admiration.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a young lassie anymore,” she stated.

“I’ve noticed.”

Suddenly aware that he’d been studying her as she worked, Raine looked up to meet Keir’s intent gaze and came to a startling realization. ’Twould be difficult to say exactly what was the most beautiful thing about him, but his emerald eyes outlined by thick black lashes would have to be at the top of anyone’s inventory. Strange, she’d never before thought of the chief of Clan MacNeil as beautiful. ’Twas his handsome brother Lachlan whom Raine had admired since childhood.

As an adolescent, she’d always considered Keir too rough and outspoken when he came with his family for a visit at Archnacarry Manor. Later, when she was old enough to join the ladies at the Scottish court, she learned all about his profligate ways. He’d seduced and then discarded a string of bonny mistresses as easily as other men bought and sold prized horses. At the royal wedding that past summer, two married ladies had attempted to pull each other’s hair out by the roots, only to learn the chief of Clan MacNeil had moved on to a third woman—before dusting his hands of them all and returning to sea.

Raine finished her task, replaced her scissors in her sewing box, and rose to her feet. Remembering the way the two jealous females had screamed at each other like fishwives in a market square, she scowled at him.

The faeries at Calanais must have been very irritated when Raine and Keir interrupted their frolicking in the moonlight. For there was no doubt the Shining Ones had been up to their usual tricks when they’d wrapped a bond of enchantment around her and Keir MacNeil, otherwise known as the Black Raven.

“There,” she said, winding the bandage into a tight roll. “ ’Tis finished and the scar is barely visible. You’re just as you were before.”

Unexpectedly, Keir reached out and pulled her onto his lap. “Am I, lass?” he asked, his deep voice husky. “Will I ever be the same, now that you’ve touched me?”

Raine knew he was alluding to the night he’d found her asleep in his bed. Of how she’d reached up and touched his face. “Neither of us will ever be the same,” she admitted in all honesty. She lifted her face, expecting a kiss, and to her surprise, he brushed his lips across her forehead.

“Why did you ask about MacMurchaidh after Cairn na Burgh fell?” he questioned, his mouth pressed lightly against her skin. “Why would you be interested in that fugitive?”

“Oh, I’m not,” she denied, gazing over his shoulder at the tapestry on the far wall. Twining one of Keir’s side-braids between her fingers, she accidently bumped his earring and set the gold hoop swinging. “I’ve no special interest in Torcall MacMurchaidh whatsoever. I simply wanted to know if you’d caught the traitors. For when you do, the rebellion and the killing will be over.”

“And when that happens,” he said in a hushed tone, “I’ll take you safely home to your family.”

“Won’t they be surprised?” Raine tried to imagine how her mother would react when she confided that Keir was her lover—and would be forever.

He lifted her chin with the tip of his finger and gazed thoughtfully into her eyes. “You left no message for Lady Nina as to where you were going?”

“Oh, as to that, yes. I wrote my mother a letter from Inverness telling her that I was with you and that I wanted to visit the standing stones at Calanais.”