The Firebrand E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Highland Treasure Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 554

Beschreibung

Highland Treasure Trilogy: Book 3    It takes a pirate to tame a pirate!  The Highland Treasure Trilogy captures the lives and loves of three Scottish sisters. Now, in the exciting conclusion, meet Adrianne…The Firebrand…a woman without compromise or inhibitions…. Thrust into the arms of the man who wants more than her heart, Adrianne Percy was hidden in the Western Isles, safe from her family's enemies until her sisters sent a notorious pirate to return her to the Highlands. But when she hatches a plan to free her kidnapped mother, it requires her to marry the handsome rogue. And what begins as a simple matter of business quickly flares into an uncontrollable desire…  

Leseprobe

THE FIREBRAND

Highland Treasure Trilogy, Book 3

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

Book Duo Creative

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Edition Note

Authors’ Note

Also by May McGoldrick

About the Author

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

The Firebrand: Highland Treasure Trilogy, Book 3 Copyright © 2011 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

Cover Art by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

To the talented members of Bucks County and New Jersey Romance Writers—may the gods and goddesses of publishing smile upon all.

And to Hilary Ross—for your encouragement in bringing out the best in us.

This book would not be what it is without you.

PROLOGUE

Jervaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, England

August 1535

“Your father is dead.”

Frowning through the mud that covered his lined and weary face, the knight looked steadily at the three young women. They stood together by the hearth, their stunned faces golden in the glow of the small fire. Only a few candles lit the small abbey chamber.

“You should know that he died true to his beliefs. Like Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, he couldn’t be forced to sign the King Henry’s Oath of Supremacy. No matter what they did, no matter what the torture, Edmund Percy would not be crushed.”

He fixed his eyes on the youngest daughter as tears, glimmering like watery diamonds, suddenly splashed from her cheeks onto the stone floor.

“They murdered him in his cell. They feared to bring him to Westminster for a trial, so they came at him in the night like vile and bloodthirsty cowards. A guard I know told me the blackguards cut Edmund’s throat. He fought them manfully, but a dog’s dagger put an end to his worthy life.”

Benedict, the tall monk standing by the door, rasped out his concern. “Where is his body? Will it be returned to Yorkshire for proper burial?”

“Nay, the body was carried to…”

A small sob escaped the youngest daughter’s lips as she suddenly bolted for the door. No one attempted to stop her as she brushed past the monk and disappeared into the blackness of the corridor.

“Continue,” Benedict ordered, motioning to the other two sisters to remain. “There is more that we must learn.”

* * *

Grief clawed at her insides, tearing the very breath from her lungs.

Leaving the chapter house, Adrianne stumbled down the three steps, ignoring the hands that reached out to help. As she ran across the abbey courtyard toward the stables, she saw only the blur of her own tears.

He was dead. Her father was gone. Forever.

She flew into the stables, her hand finding the mucking shovel by the door. Adrianne’s shoulder banged hard against the rough wood of the stalls, but her body was numb to the pain. She staggered through the dark, finding her way to the empty stall. Grief turned to fury, and she lashed out with the wooden shovel, flailing away at the stone and wood walls.

An entire year of hoping, praying, that Edmund Percy would be released from his unjust imprisonment had all been for naught. Her father was dead.

Adrianne kicked at an empty feed bucket and slung the shovel into a corner. She punched at the stable wall until blood ran from her knuckles. But she was senseless to the pain.

Images of years past flashed through her brain. Her father, tall and handsome—the gentle warrior whose heart always shone through his clear blue eyes. Her mother Nichola—the serene beauty who ruled Edmund’s heart with the same affection with which she shaped the lives of the three daughters. The family she’d had. The love they’d shared. Gone. Gone.

“Gone.” She spit out the words in anger as her bloody fist again slammed the wall. The sharp pain in her hand this time broke through the wall of insensibility, and she sank to the ground, the tears once again flowing freely.

The images were burning in her brain. Edmund Percy’s arrest, their mother frantically trying to hide their daughters, the massacre of innocent servants, blood that had been left staining the walls and floors of their manor home. It was all too clear.

Sobs shook Adrianne’s slender frame. Helplessness like nothing she had ever known drained her very soul. She leaned her head back against the stone wall and wept.

When Catherine entered the stables, the sight of her younger sister collapsed in the stall added yet one more wound to a grieving heart. Adrianne’s black hair had come loose from its braid. The gray dress, torn at the sleeve, was covered with dirt and straw. As the youngest Percy daughter looked up, the streaks of blood and dirt, mingled with tears, drew Catherine immediately to Adrianne’s side. She lay the wick lamp she carried carefully in the straw.

“What have you done?” She touched a bruise on her sister’s forehead, another scratch on her cheek.

“Don’t.” Adrianne brought a hand up to ward off her sister’s gentle touch. But Catherine’s gaze immediately fell on the bruised and bloody knuckles.

“By the Virgin! Adrianne, what have you done?”

“Please don’t.” A sob escaped the younger woman’s lips. “Please don’t lecture me on what I should or should not do. Not now. And please don’t pretend that this news of our father is another lie.”

There was a long silence. Two matching pairs of blue eyes met, each sister seeking consolation in the other.

“This time, I believe it,” Catherine said at last. “This news of Father’s death was first taken to the Borders to the far north. Mother sent this knight back to us. He had a sealed letter from her. He delivered it to me and Laura after you left the abbot’s chamber.”

Adrianne dashed away at the tears on her face and straightened where she sat. “What does the letter say? What news is there of Mother? Is she safe where she is?”

“She assures us that she’s safe, but as always she does not concern herself as much with her own well-being as with ours.” Catherine took a kerchief out of her sleeve and started wrapping it around Adrianne’s knuckles.

“Did she say anything about the Treasure of Tiberius?”

“Aye, but it’s all a jumble of riddles…as always. Words about ‘the map’ and our responsibility to keep it safe as our father did before us. References about how we should protect the sections of the map that she will send to us. The only thing that is truly clear is how real the dangers will be from those who will pursue us for it.”

“So this game we have been playing.” Adrianne met her sister’s gaze. “Laura’s elaborate plans we three have been carrying out. All the wee caskets we’ve been burying in every corner of Yorkshire. All those sketches and riddles to lead those who seek the treasure on to the next false destination—do you believe it will still serve any purpose?”

“Aye. That it will.” Catherine nodded. “Especially now, for Mother believes that ‘twill be only a matter of days before a warrant is issued for the arrest of the three of us, as well. In fact, she mentions the king’s Lieutenant, Arthur Courtenay by name. He has been just waiting for this opportunity to come after us.”

Rage rushed into Adrianne’s face. “He wouldn’t dare do so while Father was alive. Well, let him come. This time we’ll fight him to the last drop of our blood. There will be no imprisonment. No waiting.”

“Adrianne," Catherine’s hand firmly clasped her sister’s chin, “our mother does not wish to lose any more of her loved ones. She wants us safe. She wishes for us to leave England.”

“Leave England? Does she want us in the Borders with her?”

Catherine shook her head. “She doesn’t consider the Borders safe for her daughters. Nay, she has planned for the three of us to be sent to remote corners of Scotland.”

Adrianne shook her head in confusion. “Separating us? Hasn’t it been enough to live with losing our father…with losing her? The three of us staying together has been the only sane thing in this entire year of madness. We each need the other two to survive.”

“Adrianne, we’re sisters. Nothing can change that. No distance between us can crumble the foundation of strength and love that has been built.” Catherine’s hand swept the dark strands of hair out of Adrianne’s face. “But I believe we should do as she bids us. The ploy of hiding the Treasure of Tiberius will buy us some time. Surely, Sir Arthur Courtenay’s interest will lie in unearthing the treasure first. We have been given a task of carrying out our father’s wishes. This is his legacy to us. We must follow Mother's plans.”

Tears once again rushed into Adrianne’s eyes. “And lose the last of what we have by being separated? By going blindly to the ends of the world? By going where one and all will surely hate us for our English blood?”

“We’re all half Scottish. Nichola Erskine is our mother, so there will certainly be some tolerance in the way we are received.” She turned toward the door. “Come out of here, Adrianne, Laura is still looking for you.”

The two sisters both pushed themselves to their feet. Catherine picked up the wick lamp and continued. “The way I see things, Mother has planned for me to be sent to Balvenie Castle where, through the generosity of the Earl of Athol, I’ll be able to open the school I have so long dreamed of. Once I’m settled, I see no reason why you and Laura cannot join me there. We are all well-educated and know how to tutor others. We must think of this as only a brief separation.”

“And Laura? Where is she being sent?”

“Farther to the north. To a place on the eastern sea called the Chapel of St. Duthac.”

“And I?”

“To the western isles. You’re being sent to an island called Barra.”

“An island?” Adrianne exclaimed. “But one needs a boat or a ship to get to an island.”

“Aye. I believe it’s too far to swim, little sister.”

Her bandaged hand unconsciously pressed to her stomach. “But why did our mother have to send me to an island?”

Catherine ushered her sister out of the stall. “You’ll survive the journey. And once you’re there, you will be cared for perfectly…until such time as you can join me at Balvenie Castle.”

“An island,” Adrianne murmured with dismay. “So few people. So little to do.”

“Just think of all the hardships we have faced, Adrianne. Compared to all we have been through this past year, I’m certain that life on Barra will be heaven.”

1

Kisimul Castle, the Isle of Barra

Western Scotland

Five Months Later

The cry of anguish from the wooden cage hanging high above the rocks brought nods of approval from the throng huddled together at the base of the castle wall.

“And I’m telling you, Wyntoun, she’s too obstinate a vixen to die of a wee bit of weather.”

The gust of the bitter Hebrides wind carried the nun’s declaration up the stone walls of the castle to the inhabitant of the swinging cage. The boxlike prison of wood and rope hung suspended from what looked like a ship’s bowsprit projecting out from a corner of the main tower of the castle.

From the confines of the cage, Adrianne Percy peered down at the cold stare of the Abbess of the Chapel of St. Mary. Fighting the bile in her throat and the numbness of her bare fingers clutching the wooden slats, she strained to hear every word.

“Surely, considering the ice and the rain and all, the woman must have endured enough punishment already.”

“The lass has been up there just a few short hours,” the nun snapped accusingly. “Three days. She will remain up there three days.”

Adrianne shook the cage, drawing up all eyes. “Make it three hundred days, if you like, for this punishment is preferable, by far, to everything else you have meted out to me since arriving on this accursed island.”

The abbess howled upward into the wind. “Any less than three days and I shall not even consider giving her leave to beg for forgiveness.”

The young woman shook the cage again. “Beg for forgiveness? Never.”

“Five days,” the abbess shouted.

“I’ve done no wrong, and if there’s any forgiveness needed, it will be granted by me only.” Adrianne’s voice rose over a gust of wind. “Do you hear? By me.”

Adrianne felt the satisfaction and despair blend and curl in her chest at the sight of the ancient nun mumbling and making her way carefully over the rocks toward the main entrance of the keep. The abbess only stopped long enough to call out her answer before continuing.

“Seven days, vixen.”

“Hell’s gate! Just try to keep me here for seven days. For even one day. Virgil, be my guide,” she intoned. “I’d raise hell’s demons, except that they’re probably already wearing an abbess’s wimple.”

Adrianne sniffed at the horrified gasps from the men below the cage. Glancing down, she looked at the newly arrived man—the one the abbess had called by the name of Wyntoun. He was standing apart from the rest with his arms crossed over his chest and frowning up at her.

A surge of anger made her want to spit down on him—and on the rest of them. But her present battle lay with the abbess. Fighting her unsettled stomach, queasy from the wind-blown motion of the cage, Adrianne shifted from one side to the other to watch the nun’s departure.

“You will not be escaping me. This pitiful pile of rock you call a castle is too small. You cannot escape hearing me, hearing my curses.”

“By the saints, wench!” the burly steward standing near the newcomer called up to her. “If ye don’t hold yer rattling tongue, ye’ll be hanging up there until ye rot.”

“Nobody called for you to speak, you muddle-headed scullion.” She had the satisfaction of seeing a wave wash seawater up between the rocks and soak the man. “In fact, if it weren’t for your wagging tongue delivering lies about what I’d done, I wouldn’t be here.” A gust of wind had the cage again shake and swing precariously from the beam. Adrianne sank down on her knees as her stomach heaved from the jerky motion.

An icy rain had begun to fall in earnest. The wind, picking up as the tide came in, added a bitter chill to the wintry dusk settling over them.

She could handle the cold, even the soaking of her blanket and clothes with the icy rain. But she couldn’t deal with the illness caused by the rough movements of the cage. She despised this weakness. Taking a chest full of cold salty air, she grabbed the large shell and the food that was left in it and pushed herself back to her feet.

“And I’ll not be so easily poisoned, either, you fish-faced pox mongers.” She cast the dish and its contents fiercely downward. The food carried outward in the wind, falling on some of the onlookers as the shell itself shattered on the rocks not far from the newcomer’s feet.

“Come. All of you.” The abbess stood in the entryway to the castle. “Leave her.”

At the nun’s sharp order the heads of the half-dozen men snapped around, and all but the newcomer climbed over the rocks, filing into the keep behind the diminutive woman.

Still clutching the slats fiercely in her numb fingers, Adrianne wondered the reason for the man’s arrival. She’d seen the ship sail into the bay just as they’d been hanging the cage from the tower that morning. She’d also seen the boat that had been rowed ashore with this man in it. She was certain that this was the same man, for he was easily a head taller than the others who had been standing on the rocks below. And then, there was his short black hair—the same color as his black attire. Very different than the others who lived on Barra. But as far as the rest of his looks, it was too long a drop to the wet rocks to notice anything else but his fierce glower.

Watching him silently, Adrianne wondered why he’d stayed behind.

“Do you realize that your perch is higher than the uppermost rigging of most ships? You must not be afraid of the heights,” he called out. “Though I know many a man who would swallow his tongue at the threat of being hung in a cage from Kisimul Castle.”

“Well, that says a great deal for the men of Barra.”

A wave splashed up onto his boots. Lithe as a cat, the tall newcomer moved easily from rock to rock, passing under the cage and stopping on the far side.

Adrianne shifted her hands on the slats and moved to the other side of the cage, so she could peer down at him.

“So, what terrible crime did you commit to deserve this grim punishment?”

She’d committed no crime, but she chose silence as an answer. Since her arrival on Barra, no one had yet believed anything she said, anyhow.

“You can talk to me. I’ve already tried to speak on your behalf. I could be a friend.”

She snorted loud enough to make sure he heard.

“I may not yet be convinced of your wickedness. I only just arrived on the island and⁠—”

“I saw you sail in,” she exploded. “You’re a Highlander, and therefore vexatious baggage, like the rest of them.”

“You have too much mouth for a helpless English damsel.”

So he knew something of her background. “I’m anything but helpless, you buffle-headed clackdish.”

“Buffle-headed? You must be confusing me with someone else. But you do appear helpless from where I’m standing. And from all I’ve heard since stepping foot on Barra, you seem to have committed some unforgivable sin. And an unmentionable one, I might add, since no one appears to want to speak of what exactly you did to rile the most gentle and mild-tempered abbess in the entire Western Isles.”

She looked frantically about the cage to find something else to throw at him. But there was nothing that she would dare give up.

“To start, my recommendation would be for you to change your manner of speaking with her.”

Temper had already formed hot replies in her throat, but she had to forego her answer as a blast of wind lashed the swaying cage with more icy rain. Her white fingers clutched the slats of wood, as she fought down another lurch in her belly.

“I’ve been acquainted with that gentle nun for a good portion of my life, and I’d say there’s no man or woman or child living who would lend a hand to anyone bold enough to defy the wishes of that...well, that saint of a woman.”

“I don’t need or wish for help from any of you. I didn’t ask for it, and I never will. You’re all nothing but spineless, cowering toads, and you deserve what you get at her hands.” Frustration forced her to shake the cage. Her voice rising to match the wind. “And despite what you fools want to believe, that woman is a tyrant.”

“Nay. She’s a respected and loving leader who is highly regarded by the people of Barra, and by their master, as well.”

“Humph! I’ve heard about that one, too. And how convenient. Rather than minding her own corner of Barra by running her paltry abbey, the 'good' woman controls the entire island while the master—that perpetually absent minnow of a nephew—stays away. I think the milksop is afraid to deal with this tyrant’s wrath.”

“Minnow? Milksop? Is that the best you can do?”

“Nay, I can do better,” she retorted sharply. “The ‘great’ MacNeil is a roistering, shard-borne scut. From all I can tell, he’s merely a venomous, bunch-backed puttock.”

“Actually, mistress, he’s a MacLean. His mother was a MacNeil.”

Adrianne glanced to the side to see the steward standing against the castle wall, watching the exchange.

“M’lord.” The portly servant cleared his throat, sounding serious. “The abbess, she wishes to speak with you.”

After giving a departing look at the cage, the Highlander headed across the rocks to the entryway into the castle. Holding the slats of the cage in each fist, she watched him disappear. The chill wind buffeted the cage within inches of the ancient tower wall, and the endless rain finally managed to bring about a wave of desperation. She frowned and gazed down at the arrogant steward who was lingering below, gloating up at her from the safety of the rocks by the castle wall.

“Who is he?” She had to ask. “That Highlander? That faint-hearted puppy who ran as soon as the abbess whistled for him.”

“That ‘puppy,’ ye sharp-tongued vixen, is Sir Wyntoun MacLean, the abbess’s nephew and the master of Kisimul Castle.” She could see the man’s grin even in the dusk. “He’s the fiercest warrior ever to command either ship or raiding party. And after what ye said about him, I’d say it‘ll be a fortnight before he’ll be letting us feed ye, never mind let ye out of that cage of yers. Aye. A full fortnight, I’d be wagering, ye quarrelsome chit.”

She glared at him until he disappeared into the castle again. The words should have frightened her, but Adrianne felt no remorse over what she’d said and done. Six months. For six months she’d been practically a prisoner on this island. For six months she’d been corrected, condemned, made a fool of, and punished repeatedly for no reason. And it all had come to this moment.

She looked down at the sharp drop. The sea was boiling up a little farther with each swell of the tide. The salty spray stung her face as the waves now washed over the rocks and battered the wall of the castle.

Uncoiling one hand from the slats of the cage, Adrianne reached inside the waistband of her skirt beneath the cloak and drew out the small dagger she’d hidden there. Reaching above her head, her fingers slid through the wide slats of the cage and took hold of the single thick rope that connected the cage to the beam.

Aye, it had all come down to this, she thought, cutting away at the rope.

2

The black shadow of the diminutive nun loomed huge on the eastern wall of the Great Hall.

“The young women in my care are sent to this blessed island to focus on Almighty God. Their desire is to be free of the disturbing distractions of life. I tell you their wish is to embrace the stillness, to achieve the inner peace and tranquility that they cannot find in the world abroad.”

The abbess stopped her pacing before the master’s table and waited until the Highlander lifted his gaze from the ledger book open before him. She nodded curtly. “For the past six months, Wyn, these poor creatures haven’t gotten any semblance of the prayerful solitude promised them, or promised their families. And our failure, every single disruption, can be laid at the feet of one person. That bull-headed, barbed-tongued banshee, Adrianne Percy.”

“For certain, Aunt, in your vast years of experience, you must have had other spirited young women who have shown similar restlessness in their disposition.”

“Ha! Restlessness? Ha! ‘Restless’ does not even come close to describing this wild-eyed Fury.” The pacing started again. “I’ve had others. That’s true enough. But none, I can assure you, none of the others in my charge have ever dreamed of spreading open revolt beyond the walls of little abbey. Why, the Chapel of St. Mary may never be as it was. Aye, Wyn, ‘Fury’ is the right name for Adrianne Percy. For certain, she’s the lassie that cuts the Thread of Life—mine! And I don’t know what I did to deserve her.”

The Highlander closed the ledger book and nodded to the steward standing patiently at the end of the table to come and take away the record of the island’s business. Gesturing to a lean man who’d just entered the Great Hall, Wyntoun half-listened as the abbess churned on.

“First, she started in at the abbey. Breaking every rule, ignoring our routines, preaching anarchy among the youngest women. But that was only the start.”

Wyntoun watched his trusted shipmaster cross the torch-lit floor of the Hall. Although his graying thatch of hair belied his young age, Alan MacNeil was, in Wyntoun’s mind, the most knowledgeable and the most level-headed man sailing the seas. From the man’s shoulder, an oiled leather satchel hung.

“Alan,” the abbess erupted, turning as he passed in front of the blazing hearth and moved to the seat next to his master. “It’s about time you left that precious ship of yours and granted us the pleasure of your exalted presence.”

“Good day, Aunt.” Alan bowed quickly to the abbess and sat down, drawing a roll of vellum from his satchel. A serving lad quickly ran in with a bowl of steaming liquid for the unsmiling newcomer, who sipped it as Wyntoun unrolled the map before them.

“Where was I? Oh, that wee vixen.” The abbess began to pace again. “No convent walls could hold that wild thing. Why the creature was not here a week before she took to walking the entire length and breadth of the island. Alone. ‘Taking its measure,’ she tells me. Stopping in at every hut, I come to find out. Breaking bread with the good and the ungodly. And her foul mouth, where do you think that came from? I’ll tell you. It was from mixing with the fishermen and some of the roughs and rascals that idle their time away on Barra.”

The nun waved a finger at the two men. “I know what you’re thinking. Our own kin, she’s talking about. Aye, I know. And I’m ashamed of all of them. But I’ll tell you something. There has not been a single person on this blessed island that Adrianne Percy has not sought out. Why, that lass has deliberately tried to make everyone’s business her own. And if you think anyone can suffer a fever or a hangnail on Barra without the meddling mistress poking her nose into it, you’re greatly mistaken.” The abbess snorted derisively. “And do you think she’s even once told me where she’s going or when she’ll be back? Or when she does get back, how she could possibly have gotten so muddy? Nay. In she comes with her skirt torn and her hands looking like a stable worker’s and acting as if nothing in the world was amiss.”

“Aye, Aunt,” Wyntoun said vaguely, still looking at the charts.

“And don’t think that was the end of her transgressions.” Planting her small fists on her hips, the abbess came to a stop before the two men. “The Rule of Ailbe. You know it, Wyntoun. What is the Rule of Ailbe?”

The knight lifted his head and met the old woman’s piercing green eyes.

“St. Ailbe calls for meditative quiet in the lives of the religious.”

“I’m glad you recall, nephew. ‘Let his work be silently done when possible. Let him not be talkative, but rather be a man of few words. Be silent. Seek peacefulness, that your devotion might be fruitful.’”

“Aye.” Wyntoun’s gaze dropped to the map.

The nun was not finished. “And now, it’s for you to ask me what the Rule of Ailbe has to do with Adrianne Percy.”

The knight frowned and looked up from the table. “Well, Aunt, and what does all of this have to do with Adrianne Percy?”

“Everything!” she exploded. “And before you lose interest and go back to your maps and other worldly pursuits, let me answer the question you asked me about what she’s done to deserve being hung in that cage.”

Wyntoun remained still, making a show of attentiveness to the abbess.

“I’ve already told you that young woman’s sole purpose since arriving here has been to break every rule that pertains not only to her, but to everyone else on this island.” Wyntoun slapped his palm on the table impatiently. “Aye, Aunt. You have.”

“But I haven’t said a word about her latest misdeed.” She raised an accusing finger and pointed at the corner of the castle where the Englishwoman’s cage was hanging outside. “Two days ago, Adrianne Percy burst into the cloister of the monastery, her hair unbound and her skirts flying about her ankles, screaming ‘Fire!’ and nearly giving old Brother Brendan apoplexy.” The abbess leaned over the table and lowered her voice to a whisper. “‘The Rule of Ailbe be damned,’ the vixen kept shouting. ‘There’s a fire!’”

“From what we heard from the lads bringing stores aboard from the village, the incident at the monastery was⁠—”

“You mind your maps, Alan.”

The shipmaster reddened to the roots of his prematurely gray hair but pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked back down at the map.

The nun turned her fiery gaze back on Wyntoun. “There was no fire…to speak of. Her purpose is to ruin us. To ruin the peace of the people living on this blessed island. To ruin God’s work here.”

The Highlander sat back, pushing the maps away from him. “Very well, Aunt. I hear your complaint. What do you wish me to do?”

There was a pause and a quick flash of surprise in the old woman’s wrinkled features.

“Well, there’s the question of her mother’s wishes. Nichola Erskine Percy. Her wishes were for the daughter to stay here until such time as she would be sent for.” A note of pique quickly crept back into the woman’s tone. “But the Lady Nichola didn’t mention a word of Adrianne’s unruly disposition. Nay, there were no warnings, at all, in any of her correspondence. Truly, if there were any hint of this, I would never have⁠—”

“What do you wish me to do, Aunt?”

The repeated question silenced the old woman for a moment. She walked to the hearth and stared into the leaping flames. She then turned back to her nephew.

“I want you to take her away. Return her to her mother. Take her back to England or wherever it is Nichola is residing now.”

“Done.” Wyntoun abruptly pulled the maps close again. Alan began pointing out the likeliest route along the coast.

“You’re not mocking me, now, Wyntoun? This is not a jest?” she persisted. “You are taking her away.”

The knight’s green eyes flashed like emeralds in the light of Great Hall’s torches. “You know me, Aunt. I never jest.”

The abbess nodded, but she didn’t retreat as the two men turned back to the map. The serving lad ran in again and replaced the pitcher of ale on the table. Another appeared carrying huge chunks of peat, which he proceeded to stack high in the blazing hearth. No fire, though, would be hot enough to disperse the chill from the Hall.

“And my decree of punishment for her?” she asked after a pause.

“It will stand, if you insist on it.” Wyntoun put one map away as Alan unrolled another, spreading it on the surface of the wooden table. “But I warn you, when the ship’s stores are restocked and the weather clears, we’ll be setting sail. And if the time I choose to leave precedes your release of the English lass,” a deep frown challenged the abbess’s, “then you may have to keep her until spring. I don’t know when I’ll be sending another ship that can convey her back to her mother.”

The abbess pursed her thin lips with displeasure.

“I shall not trust another crew and ship,” she said finally, eyeing both men. “And I say this as much for Adrianne’s sake as for my own.”

Alan glanced quickly at his leader, but Wyntoun fixed his eyes on the map.

“She is hell’s fire on earth, Wyn. She’s a firebrand in a grain barn.” The abbess turned and stared at the hearth. “It’s a miracle the ship bringing her here didn’t sink at sea. I don’t understand how that crew was able to keep her under control for the journey from England.”

“And you want us taking her back?” Alan pushed his cup of ale away. “What are you trying to do, Aunt? Get rid of us all?”

The abbess dismissed the sailor’s comment with a wave of her hand. “You can handle it, Alan,” she replied, coming back to the table. “You’re my own kin. And if anyone trusts my opinions, it is my own family. But you must be warned. She has the ability to charm both man and woman into believing what she says, and into following her disruptive impulses.”

“I’ve seen her ‘charm’ in action, Aunt.” Wyntoun looked up, his face serious.

“Nay, Wyn,” she persisted. “She has something special in her. She can speak sweetly enough when she cares to. People follow her, I tell you, and men are the first to fall before her bonny looks.” Neither man moved nor showed the slightest curiosity. After a long moment, the abbess nodded with satisfaction. “There we are, then. Adrianne stays in her confinement until you’re ready to set sail.”

“As I was coming ashore, the rain was changing to snow.” Alan addressed Wyntoun instead of the abbess. “Would it not be better for you to put her in the prisoner’s hole, or even hang her cage here in the Great Hall?”

“I’ll not have it.” The abbess shook her head adamantly at the two men. “We’ve done that. Two days ago, when we first brought her down from the abbey, I had her cage hung right there from that rafter. Why, in a few moments, the brazen creature was amusing herself entertaining everyone below with her wicked tongue. And I don’t mind telling you that I myself was the butt of most of her impudent mockery. Nay, that will not do, at all. Why, inside of an hour, she’d managed to win a number of those listening to take her side against me.”

Again Alan directed his words to the master. “Half-Scot she might be, but the lass was raised an English lady. She may not survive the night out there.”

“I had blankets put in the cage for her. She’ll survive.” The nun wrapped both of her hands around the ornate silver cross hanging around her neck, and a small smile broke across her thin lips. “I am pleased, though, that my prayers have finally been answered. Once and for all, we’ll be ridding Barra of that wee scourge.”

Sudden shouts coming from the courtyard drew everyone’s eyes to the doorway as the burly steward ran into the Hall.

“The cage, m’lord.”

Wyntoun shoved the map in Alan’s direction. “What about the cage?”

“The cage fell. The thing is crashed on the rocks. The rope must have given way.”

“What of her?” Wyntoun walked around the table and quickly crossed the floor with Alan and the abbess on his heels. “What of the Englishwoman?”

“She went down, too, m’lord. Onto the rocks. The men heard her scream. And that was that. By the time we got out there, the tide had washed away most of her, Lord bless her soul.”

The steward made the sign of cross, and Wyntoun glared back at the ancient nun.

“It appears your prayers have been answered sooner than you expected, Aunt.”

3

The night wind, black and bitter, tore at the flaring torches, threatening to extinguish them and at the same time snuff out Wyntoun’s hopes. Still, though, the old woman continued to rail at the knight.

“Get back to your ship, I tell you. You need to be ready to set sail with the tide.”

Wyntoun swung the smoking torch abruptly around and glared with annoyance at the face of the nun looking on.

“We set sail when I am ready, Aunt.” The mix of rain and snow driven by the wind stung his face, but as he looked at her, the aged nun seemed oblivious to the storm. He frowned, gentling his tone. “I advised you to stay indoors and leave the search to the men.”

“I’m telling you, Wyn, you have to go.”

The Highlander turned and faced the roiling surface of the bay. His ship, not an arrow-shot from the castle, was riding the waves easily. From the rise and fall of the torches, though, he could tell that the small boats working just beyond the castle’s rocks were clearly struggling to stay afloat and still continue the search. Men on the shore, waist deep in the frigid waters, clung to half-submerged boulders and looked for the young woman’s body. “We’re not leaving. At least, not until we find some trace of her.”

A shout came from one of the boats. Wyntoun moved into the water himself, edging closer to where the torches flared in the wind.

“A blanket, m’lord!” one of the men shouted to Wyntoun.

“More pieces of the cage.” The call was from Alan on the right.

The Highlander turned in that direction.

“Listen to me, Wyn,” the abbess called from the shore. “You’re wasting your time here.”

The knight disregarded the abbess’s comment and raised his torch higher in the air.

“By the saints! It’s her hair.” The steward’s shout was almost a moan. “Och, the blessed lass. Here’s a lock of her hair caught between these slats.”

Wyntoun waded back to the shallows and climbed up to where the steward stood with a handful of long wet curls. The abbess reached the spot ahead of him and snatched the hair out of the man’s hand.

“I do not care to repeat myself, Wyntoun, but in this case I’m making an exception. Take your men this instant and get back to your ship.”

A flash of temper crossed the Highlander’s expression.

“Look at it.”

Wyntoun’s anger quickly subsided as he glared at the hair the nun held up for him to see. He took it and, studying it in the light of the torch, frowned at the straight cut of the tresses’ ends. Hardly the look of hair that had been torn out.

“In the abbey I have some documents and correspondence regarding Adrianne that I need to get for you, before you sail.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Nay.” The woman shook her head vehemently. “If you do not get back to your ship immediately, she’ll be arranging for your men to sail that vessel to sea without you, and with herself at the helm.”

* * *

As the narrow door of the shipmaster’s cabin opened, the tiny windows at the stern of the ship swung wide. Wyntoun crossed the cabin, pulled them shut, and latched them before turning to his man.

“She’s aboard, Wyn, just as you said.”

The Highlander turned and gave a satisfied nod to Alan.

“And you left her in hiding?”

“We did. Not an alarm raised. We didn’t even touch the wet clothes she must have tucked into a coil of rope on deck when she first climbed aboard. She’s a game one, I’ll give her that.”

“You’re having her hiding place watched.”

“Aye, she’s in one of the empty water barrels. Coll heard her moving about inside. And we’re keeping an eye on her.” Alan closed the door behind him. Muffled shouts from above deck told Wyntoun that the crew was readying the ship to set sail.

“How did she get out here? Swim?”

“Aye. She must have.”

Wyntoun hung his sword belt on a peg across the cabin. “Any word from the abbess?”

“They tell me she still insists on coming aboard, rather than giving Ian whatever it is she has of the Englishwoman.”

The knight’s green eyes couldn’t hide his satisfaction as he reached into a traveling bag he’d dropped on the cabin bunk. Removing a folded parchment, he carried the letter to where Alan had seated himself at a small worktable by the narrow cabin door.

“I had my doubts, Wyn. But it all worked out well.” Alan picked up the letter and glanced at the contents. “You were right in not mentioning to the abbess the real reason behind taking the Englishwoman from Barra.”

“The less anyone knows, the better.”

“When do you intend to tell the lass?” Alan folded the letter again and put it back on the desk. “Or rather, how long are you planning to let her hide in that barrel?”

“For as long as she wishes. It’s much easier to keep her there in her barrel than anyplace else on this ship.”

"Surely, she’s wet to the bone."

"Once we set sail, we'll lure her out."

“So far, everything she’s done has played right into your hand.”

“And we have to make sure that all her future moves, as well, work to our advantage, until we reach Duart Castle.”

“Are you going to send word to her sisters?”

“Not just yet.” Wyntoun crouched beside the worktable and slid open a secret panel on the side of the desk. With a satisfied glance at his cousin, he placed the letter in the chamber and slid the panel closed again. “Of course, everything I plan is subject to change, depending on the contents of these precious documents our aunt is entrusting me with on behalf of the Percy lass.”

“I believe she’s here.”

Alan had no sooner come to his feet when there was a knock. At Wyntoun’s command Ian, one of MacNeil warriors, pushed open the door and stepped back, letting the abbess squeeze by him before following her in.

“Well.” The nun’s critical eye took in the neatly arranged furnishings of the cabin. “I have to give you credit, Wyntoun. Your sense of order even shows in this wee closet you call home for a few days of the year. Put that chest here, Ian.”

As the warrior placed a small wooden chest on the table, Alan headed for the door. “I’ll leave you two. I want to be ready to sail at first light.”

“Ian, wait outside for the abbess,” the knight ordered. “Our business here shall be quick. My guess is the abbess has no desire to sail with us.”

The woman snorted and sat with a sigh on the chair as the door closed behind the departing men. “Have you found her?”

“We have, Aunt. She’s resting comfortably in one of the empty water barrels we’ll be refilling when we reach Mull.”

“I knew it.” She reached inside the neck of her woolen dress and produced a heavy key hanging on a chain. “You might not think six months is enough time to get to know someone well, but I tell you, having witnessed this young woman’s antics, having observed how determined she can be, I knew in my bones that she had already found her way to this ship.”

“But why the ship?” Wyntoun asked, watching the nun’s long fingers as they put the key into the lock of the wooden chest. “What made you so certain that she would come here, rather than hiding in the keep or in some crofter’s hut on the island?”

The lock clicked dully, and the abbess pushed open the top of the chest. “I knew she’d come here. From the first week that she arrived on Barra, she’s been trying to leave. To escape this island.”

“But where did she want to go? From what you’ve told me, she has no one else near.”

“To her two older sisters,” the abbess announced, taking a thick leather packet out of the wooden chest. “She’s been determined to leave Barra and find her sisters. From what she told me, they too were sent to the Highlands by their mother after Edmund Percy was murdered in the Tower of London.”

“Do you know where the others are?”

“Nay. If I had any information on their whereabouts, I would have sent word to come and remove the vixen months ago.” The abbess laid the packet on the table and placed a protective hand over it. “With your connections, Wyn, I’m certain you can find Nichola Percy in no time. I can only tell you that in her original correspondence, she wrote that she was taking shelter in the Borders, with some of the families that had close ties to Thomas Erskine, her father.”

“Finding the mother should not be too difficult,” Wyntoun assured her.

“Now, in returning the daughter to her, you must also return this package, sealed as it is, to Lady Nichola.”

The abbess picked up the packet and held it out. Wyntoun took the packet from her hand. “What does it contain, Aunt?”

“In truth, I don’t know. But Lady Nichola’s instructions were clear when she sent it to me.” Her sharp green eyes met and held the Highlander’s. “I was to hide this wooden casket and its contents. I was to protect it as if the key to the very Gates of Heaven lay within it.”

“And?”

“And I was to continue the watch over it until such time as Adrianne was secure in her place of safety.”

“You could have given this to her on Barra.” Wyntoun turned the packet over in his hand. The wax seal showed the Percy and Erskine coats of arms linked. “She was safe there.”

The nun snorted with disgust. “But she was never secure. The greatest danger that young woman faces comes not from those pursuing her as it does from herself.” She shook her head. “She has certainly not been ready to receive this packet at any time that she’s been on Barra. So as it came to me, I want you to return it to Lady Nichola, along with her daughter. Let the woman make other arrangements.”

Wyntoun casually tossed the packet back into the wooden chest and nodded reassuringly to the old woman. “I shall take care of everything, Aunt.”

“Very well.” The abbess rose to her feet and stepped toward the door. “And you will look after her?”

“I shall.”

“You will be patient with her. She’s, after all. Quite young.”

“I can assure you, Aunt, no discipline I come up with for the English firebrand will be any harsher than hanging her in a cage from the top of Kisimul Castle on a midwinter’s eve.”

“Humph! That was nothing.” She waited for Wyntoun to open the door for her and then glanced back at him. “And you’ll find out soon enough that Adrianne has no fear of heights or anything else. Putting her out there was only a test of her skill. When I had her suspended in the Great Hall, it took her only a few hours before she’d worked herself free and was climbing down the rope on the far side of the Hall. I believe the cold must have slowed her down a wee bit tonight.”

Wyntoun frowned at the old woman’s serious expression, unsure whether her words had been spoken in jest…or out of admiration.

“Have no worries, Aunt. I shall see to it that she’s safely united with her kin.”

“Very well. I’m done with it.” The nun waved a hand at her nephew and stepped into the narrow gangway, pushing Ian ahead of her toward the ladder leading to the deck. “Lead on, you hulking oaf. I want to get my feet on solid ground again.”

Wyntoun walked back inside the cabin and, as he closed the door behind him, his eyes never left the open casket on his desk.

“Far easier than I would have ever thought.”

Wyntoun sat himself at the desk, picked up the packet, and broke the seal without a moment’s hesitation. Unwrapping the leather, he gazed for a moment at the contents. A letter addressed to Adrianne Percy on fine parchment, and smaller folded packet of vellum.

He pushed aside the letter and reached for the folded vellum. Carefully opening it, he stared at the marks and symbols on the sheet.

The map. Well, part of it, anyway, he decided.

“Tiberius,” he whispered.

There was no warning. Suddenly, he felt the cutting edge of the dagger pressed tightly against his throat, the woman’s small hand having taken a firm grip on his hair.

Wyntoun dropped the map on the table.

“Very good, clackdish. But you know you shouldn’t be touching things that don’t belong to you.”

4

Adrianne’s hand kept a steady pressure with the small dagger as her eyes glanced over the map on the table before the Highlander. He turned his head slightly and the weapon cut into his skin. Blood beaded up on the taut skin of his neck.

“The next time you move will be the last time.”

In spite of the trickle of blood now running down into the neck of his black shirt, Adrianne knew that her threat had not struck fear into the knight’s heart. In fact, as green eyes turned and looked up at her, she wondered whether he was taking her seriously at all. His intense gaze swept downward from her face, taking in what he could see of the rest of her, and Adrianne suddenly felt her skin grow warm under his bold scrutiny.

Anger quickly replaced surprise, and she jerked his head backward, holding tight to his short black hair.

“Don’t push your...” She paused as men could be heard passing the cabin door.

“Don’t push what, wee one?”

He turned in the chair, and Adrianne quickly sidestepped to keep her advantage.

“Stop your moving, or I’ll cut your throat.” Wyntoun MacLean in the flesh was clearly a great deal more dangerous than she had anticipated while hanging in her cage off Kisimul Castle’s wall. And though the shade of green was darker, he had the predatory gaze of a cat on the hunt.

“And then what?”

“I have no time for these games. Be quick now. Wrap everything you took out in the leather again.”

The Highlander not only ignored her command, he sat back in the chair, stretching his booted legs before him. The muscles in his tanned face relaxed, one corner of his mouth quirking upward insolently. The rogue even had the nerve to look bored.

She jerked his hair even harder, wiping the smirk off his face.

“I gave you a specific order. Now, if you wish to live long enough to see the first rays of…”

The small dagger flew out of her hand and clattered loudly across the wooden floor of the cabin as the chair he was sitting on toppled on its side. Adrianne hadn’t even time to let out a gasp before the Highlander’s rock-hard forearm was around her, pinning her against him.

Kicking, twisting, punching at him wildly, Adrianne felt the hand she’d held the dagger in going numb from his sudden blow. Her strength seemed to drain from her completely as she realized her attempts were having no effect whatsoever on the blackguard. The brute simply twisted one of her arms behind her back, applying pressure and pulling her tighter to him.

She winced from the pain but refused to cry out as he pinned the second behind her, as well.

“Now, you listen to me, hellcat,” he said, snarling into her face.

She butted him with her head and this time had the satisfaction of seeing surprise and annoyance register in his arrogant features.

“What the hell?” he growled. Holding both her hands behind her in one viselike fist, he grabbed her wild tangle of hair with the other and held her solidly anchored in place.

“They were not jesting on Barra,” he said, frowning at her. “You are truly dangerous.”

Her head pounded with the impact of the blow she’d given him, but she ignored it, glaring at him fiercely.

“You should have listened with greater care, knight, for I’ll be cutting your throat as soon as I free myself of your loathsome grasp.” Her gaze fell on his rigidly set jaw. She glanced up past the stern line of full lips, so close to her face, to his eyes. Wyntoun MacLean’s eyes were assuredly the greenest she’d ever seen in her entire life. Far greener than the abbess’s, and far more dangerous.

She swallowed the rest of her words and looked in the direction of the door. Escape suddenly seemed out of the question.

The warrior tugged again on a fistful of her hair and Adrianne’s head snapped back. She watched as his eyes moved over her face, her mouth. He forced her body backward, his bold gaze taking in even more.

“You’re much more...much older than I thought you would be.”

The meaning of his words was unmistakable, as was the object of his attention. Adrianne felt a strange tingling in her breasts beneath the wet wool of her blouse. She struggled, but he again pinned her tightly against him.

“Let go of me,” she squirmed, finding her face too close to his own. Strange feelings were racing through her. Part panic, part something else. So close to him, she could smell his masculine scent, that unexpected smell of sea and storm. The saltiness of the west wind. His scent was too paralyzing, too exciting. She tried to push away from him again.

“You will stop your squirming if you know what’s best for you.”

She paid no attention to his words and again tried to wriggle free of his hold. “If you don’t release me this instant, by the Virgin…”

The words once again withered on her lips as his strong arm pulled her tightly against his groin. This time she couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her as she felt the ridge of hardness against her hip. She knew what it was. It was that peculiar condition she knew men suffered when they were enticed in a certain way. Adrianne froze, looking up in shock at his face.

“I warned you to stop your squirming.”

“I’m no scullery maid, villain. And I did not summon you.”

One dark brow arched questioningly. “What are you talking about?”

“You have no reason for...for getting like this.”

There was a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, and she gave him her fiercest and most contemptuous scowl.

“You think I need to be summoned, hellcat?” He pulled her tighter. “You think a man waits to be summoned?”

“Of course,” she challenged.

“A better man than I, perhaps.” His eyes narrowed as he stared into her own. “But how do you know so much about this business of summoning?”

Adrianne felt his manhood throb against her and tried again to get free of his hold, but he wouldn’t release her.

“Did someone on Barra touch you, or teach you of such things?” His face took on a murderous cast.

“I’ve had endless experience with such matters. But what I know, I learned years before I ever stepped foot on your pitiful island.”

An eyebrow shot up. “Years before?”

“Let go of me, clackdish.” She twisted again, trying to break loose of his hold. Suddenly, the heat in the cabin had become unbearable.

“Years?”

She stopped, momentarily taken aback by the caressing softness in his tone, at the smoky look that had crept into his green eyes. Adrianne suddenly found it increasingly difficult to breathe. She forced herself to stare at the neckline of his black shirt, at the darker spots where she had drawn blood with her dagger.

“Aye, years,” she retorted as sharply as she could. “I was fourteen when I first learned of this. That is considered years, I’d say.”

“And who, might I ask, was the rogue that took it on himself to teach you such delicate and private matters? Some wandering friar, no doubt.”

“You will not slander the good name of God’s lowly servants.” She hesitated, looking up at him. “As a matter of fact, there was not one rogue. There were many.”

His look of desire quickly sharpened to a glare. “Many?”

“Of course, there were many.” She nodded firmly. “Many men and one woman.”

“A woman?” His glare turned to a look of shock. “And where did these lecherous acts take place?”

“In the stables of our estate in Yorkshire. The last stall on the left was the favorite meeting place.”

“Were your parents aware of such...such indiscreet behavior?”

“Of course not. But my sisters knew everything.”

“And they didn’t stop you?”

“Why should they?”

He was glaring at her. She glared back.

“It only began by accident, and quite innocently, too.” Her wrists ached from his powerful grip. “They knew I liked to go and learn by watching the men. And I never tried to rescue Catherine from herself when she would get lost in her books and daydream most of a day away. And Laura. She was worse with her lists and schedules and ordering everyone around.”

“I hardly think your sisters’ pastimes were quite the same thing as your...well, the fact that you would find pleasure in escaping to the stables.”

“You condemn me without knowing anything about it.” She tried to twist her arms free, but he continued to hold her. “And you’re yelling at me.”

“Someone needs to.”

“And why is that?” she stormed. “You don’t know about my family. If you knew anything about us, you’d understand that my nature and my talents are as valuable to our cause as my sisters’ contributions.”

“Your cause? And how is that?” His voice dripped with mockery. “Don’t tell me. I suppose you plan to sell your services, and expertise, for money to take care of all three of you.”

She frowned and met his piercing gaze. “Actually, the thought has crossed my mind many times. And I’ll tell you something, I would go through with it if there were ever a need for us to look after ourselves.”

His face was the very picture of angry discontent.

“I am as good as any hired man.”

“Hired man? This from Edmund Percy’s daughter?”

He abruptly released Adrianne’s hands, keeping his grip on her hair as he quickly righted the chair. Whirling her around, he sat her firmly in the chair and let go of her tangled locks.

“What business is it of yours?” she snapped.

“I believe,” he growled, towering over her. “I believe I’ve learned more than I care to know about your flawed character.”

“Flawed? How dare you?” She tried to stand up, but he pushed her back into the chair. “Just because I’m more capable than most hired warriors, certainly more than an apelike mercenary like you, there’s no reason for you to attack my character. I could easily disguise myself as a man, and I can fight as well as any of you. I can cut down a rider with a sword. I can jump a ditch or scale a castle wall. I can ride a horse better than most men.”