The Firebrand (6 page)

Gillie’s sigh of relief turned quickly to a gasp, though. From the darkness behind him, the talonlike hands of a sailor grasped him by the arms and held him up in the air while another sailor peered closely into his face.

***

It was only a brush of the lips. But it was also a step toward a chasm that Wyntoun knew held great danger. He was standing at the edge. As he looked into her eyes, he knew that she felt it too. The desire sizzled in the narrow space between them…and he saw her struggling against it.

With his lips still hovering just over hers, he watched her violet blue eyes grow round with awareness. The wild beat of her pulse beneath the tips of his fingers spoke of her agitation, and as he looked down at her parted lips, the thrill of conquest—and desire—surged in his loins. How he longed to feast on those lips!

He released her abruptly and took a step back.

“Remember this,” he growled. He saw her clutch tightly at the torn section of her blouse. “Next time, there will be no stopping. And I assure you, if you are foolish enough to arouse my passions another time, our dealings will not end with a kiss...summons or no.”

She remained still, her back to the wall of the cabin. Her face was flushed, but she continued to remain silent. As he’d expected, all the fight had washed out of her. Wyntoun eyed her with amusement, pushing back thoughts of his own physical reaction to this untamed beauty.

He pulled the map from his belt and placed it with the letter inside the leather pouch. Adrianne continued to watch his hands, but still she didn’t move.

“Do you want to hear why I was sent after you?”

He glanced at her and saw her eyes flicker back from a spot across the cabin floor. Following her gaze, he located the small dagger that he’d knocked from her hand earlier. She was no quitter, he thought with grudging admiration.

He walked over and picked the weapon up off the floor and turned on his heels. Returning to her, Wyntoun held the dagger toward her with the hilt pointing out.

“Take it.”

She stared at the weapon in his hand for a moment in surprise. “Why?”

“You are here on a ship with a crew of men who love three things—a bloody fight, a goodly drink, and a lusty wench. You’ll need to protect yourself, I’d say.”

Her hand reached up and encircled the hilt.

“And I am giving you this, not because I want to lose any of my fine crew, but because I trust you to use it only when you must. Oh, and not on me.”

Her eyes—alert and blue enough to stir any man’s blood—narrowed, lying her calm exterior. He watched her tuck the weapon in the waistband of her skirt. She was more confident with that weapon than many a man he knew. He looked up at the cut section of her dark tresses, falling so seductively across her brow.

The drama! She’d cut her hair to be certain that those who found the remnants of the cage would suffer with regret. Her only means of escape had been to climb up the single rope and over the beam to the castle wall.

She
was
a dangerous opponent. He would need to use all the finesse he could muster to keep her off balance.

“Your mother has been captured by the English king’s men.”

Her body snapped to attention at his sudden news.

“I was visiting my friend William Ross at Blackfearn Castle when the letter arrived. It came soon after his wedding to your sister Laura.”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“I have a great deal of information for you. So if you’ll promise not to murder me with that wee dagger of yours, I’ll tell you what I know.” Granted, he thought, it was a poor enough effort at lightening the mood. He watched her move away from the wall and sink down onto the chair by the table. The stunned look on her face didn’t change.

“My mother,” Adrianne croaked, her voice barely a whisper.

“She is alive and will stay alive if Henry’s demands are met.”
He saw her fingers tremble as they reached up again and clutched at the torn blouse. “And Laura...she’s married.”

“Both of your sisters are married. Catherine has married John Stewart, earl of Athol. As I was leaving Blackfearn, a messenger brought word that she is bearing their first bairn.”

“A bairn,” she whispered. She turned her face away from him, but not before he spotted the glint of tears in her eyes. “Tell me...tell me more about my mother.”

“All I know is from the ransom letter that was sent to William Ross and from there to Athol.”

“What did it say?”

“The letter came with an offer of exchange.”

“Exchange for what?”

As Adrianne continued to clutch at her shirt, he considered acting as an honorable knight, the concerned host, and offering her dry clothing of his own to wear. But the look of entreaty in her eyes told him that she would have nothing to do with any of that until she knew the rest of his news.

“Treasure...in exchange for the life of your mother. Before they light the fires of Midsummer’s Eve, you and your sisters must produce a certain treasure.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Tiberius.”

“Aye. That was why I broke out the seal and searched out the map. Each of your sisters already has her own section of it.”

“And all three pieces are needed.”

“Laura has already sent word that you three agree to the exchange.”

The temper flashed in her face as she turned to him. “There is nothing in this world I hold more dear than our mother, but that would not have been her wish. We are to protect the Treasure of Tiberius and keep it away from the likes of that foul English king, no matter what the hardship...no matter what the sacrifice.”

Wyntoun paused, watching the emotions play across Adrianne’s face.

“I believe your sister was only trying to buy time until an alternate plan could be devised.”

Adrianne gave a small nod, a flush of embarrassment darkening her cheeks. Her voice was gentler when she spoke again. “Our instructions were to protect the map. But what if Nichola knows the whereabouts of Tiberius? This will give our enemies the chance to force the information from her. The treasure needs to be moved.”

“Together, the three of you have the ability to find Tiberius. The journey to locate it should not be a difficult one.”

The young woman came to her feet. “But what about our mother? We must raise an army! We must go south and free her before ‘tis too late!”

The Highlander frowned at her. “You don’t know where she is being held.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She paced across the cabin. “Someone must know. We go to the Borders and take one castle at a time, if we have to. We--”

“I understand now why your mother saw fit to have word sent to your sister Laura.”

Adrianne whirled to face him, blue eyes flashing, the revealing tear in her blouse already forgotten. The young woman was the very image of a storm about to break.

“No army Athol or William Ross could raise will match the English king’s if she is being held south of the Tweed River. We tried that once, at Flodden Field, and lost many of Scotland’s finest.”

“I will not sit back and let her be murdered as my father was.”

“Aye, no one could blame you for feeling that way. But sometimes, you must use forethought in dealing with such a delicate matter. You must plan your course as if you were sailing your ship through the reefs off Mull.”

“You sound very much like Laura,” she scoffed.

“I take that as a compliment.”

“‘Twas not intended as a compliment.”

The ship suddenly dove downward into a trough, and Wyntoun knew they had moved into the open sea.

Adrianne pressed a hand to her stomach, reaching out to steady herself with the other. “What...what is Laura’s plan?”

“I am to take you to Balvenie Castle, Athol’s stronghold in the Highlands near Elgin. Laura and William Ross are to go there as well. When you are all together, you three and your sisters’ husbands will agree upon a final plan.”

“But that’s not where you are going, are you?” The look of distrust was alive again in her eyes.

“Nay, not directly.”

“And why is that?”

He studied her for a long moment, considering whether to answer or not. Moments before, when she’d been wild and reckless—when she’d held the dagger to his throat—the decision would have been easy. He would tell her nothing. Now, however, he was beginning to understand her.

“The weather in the Highlands can be a dangerous thing at this time of the year. Once we make the mainland, it could take as long as a month of hard travel to reach Balvenie Castle.” He went to a small sea chest by the bed and returned with a map. Spreading it open on the table, he waited until she was leaning over it, too.

“My plan is to go to Duart Castle first. Depending on the wind, we should be there tomorrow…or the next day.”

“Where is Duart Castle?”

He pointed at the map. “‘Tis here, on the Isle of Mull. ‘Tis the MacLean stronghold. From there, I could send men to the south into the Borders—and beyond if need be—to find out about your mother’s possible whereabouts. And while we wait, I’ll put together an escort to take you to your sisters.”

Wyntoun studied her profile as she gazed intently at the map. Some time during the past few months, she’d obviously adopted the dress of the island women. The undyed wool blouse. The red and black and green MacNeil plaid skirt. When she’d climbed aboard the ship, she had discarded the wet tartan shawl that would complete the picture. Aye, he thought, with her wild mane of loose dark hair and her sun-kissed skin, she had the look of an islander. A stunningly beautiful islander.

He shook his head and looked down at the map. But he had not come to Barra looking for a woman to bed. Not even when that woman managed to heat his blood with a mere show of skin. She was a bonny thing, though, to be sure.

Nay, he told himself decisively, he’d come here to take possession of the youngest of the Percy sisters for a reason...a reason far nobler than simple lust.

She pointed a slender finger at the map. “Where is Balvenie Castle?”

“Here,” he replied, pointing to an empty space beneath the cross marked “Elgin.”

She shook her dark locks. “‘Twould be a waste of time for me to go north to them. I will travel there only to turn around and go south again. If it takes as long as you say, the Treasure of Tiberius will be surely lost...and my mother, too.”

“Your sisters’ wishes were clear regarding what you were to do.”

There was a knock at the door. She ignored it and turned to him. “But that was because...well, I love them both dearly, but they are incapable of acting swiftly.”

“I gave them my word that you would be delivered safely.” The knock was louder this time. Wyntoun turned irritably to the door. “Aye, what is it?”

Alan pushed open the door.

“I have bad news, Wyn. We’ve cleared the point and made the turn toward Ardnamurchan. But Coll just brought up the stowaway from the hold, and ‘tis not the lass--” The shipmaster stopped dead as he noticed Adrianne standing behind the knight. “On the other hand...”

“Mistress Percy is accustomed to traveling in better quarters than an empty barrel.” Wyntoun cast a quick glance in Adrianne’s direction and found her frowning at him. “Stay to your course, Alan. Our guest managed to find this cabin with no help from any of us.”

The sound of shouts and laughter from the deck above them raised Wyntoun’s brow.

“And what is all that about?”

“We did find a stowaway in the barrel.” The shipmaster seemed to have some difficulty tearing his eyes away from Adrianne.

“And who might that be?”

“The foundling you came across years ago. The scar-faced lad they call Gillie the Fairy-Borne.”

There were more shouts and laughter from above.

“What’s all the noise about?” Wyntoun asked again, stepping around Alan and cocking an ear toward the ladder as a loud cheer from the sailors reverberated throughout the cabin.

“I believe the men just threw the lad overboard.”

“Overboard!” Adrianne cried out. “They cannot throw Gillie into the sea!”

She made it only to the door of the cabin before the knight caught her and tossed her roughly in the direction of the shipmaster.

“Let me go! I have to get him out of that icy water. The lad will die!”

“Alan, keep an eye on this hellcat until I get back.”

Adrianne struggled for a moment against the man’s grip, but the rolling of the ship suddenly sent a wave of sickly heat through her, causing her knees to weaken beneath her. She paused and drew a breath in alarm. The cabin was suddenly close and warm. She pushed away from him again in an attempt to move toward the door. The shipmaster held her firmly by the arm.

“Mistress Percy, you’ve no reason to fight me. The master will bring the lad back. The men may have him tethered to a line yet.”

His voice was gentle, soothing, but she looked at the man called Alan in alarm.

“Tethered to a line?”

“Aye,” he answered. “To see how long he can stay afloat. Everyone knows the servants of the de’il cannot bear the water.”

“Servants of the devil? Gillie’s just a young boy!”

“These men are just sailors, mistress. They have their superstitions and their old beliefs...just like everyone else.”

“But--”

“Wyntoun can handle them,” he said, easing his grip. “All will be well. Just wait, mistress.”

He dropped his hand from her arm, and she moved to the small, shuttered windows at the far end of the cabin. She turned her back on him and tried to pull together the torn edges of her blouse.

“You might want to be using this.”

Adrianne glanced over her shoulder at the Highlander as he picked up a blanket off the single bed and held it out to her.

“You’re soaking wet, and Wyntoun wouldn’t be too happy if you were to catch a chill before we reach Duart Castle.” He glanced at her clutching the blouse. “And I’ll have someone--nay, I’ll bring down a needle and thread from my things for you to mend that.”

Adrianne studied more closely the confident and serious set of the man’s features. She was sure he was younger than he looked, in spite of the gray thatch of hair and the skin weathered by sun and salt air. His green eyes were so much like Wyntoun MacLean’s that she wondered for a moment if they were brothers. She took the blanket from him and wrapped it around her shoulders.