Black Raven's Lady: Highland Lairds Trilogy (14 page)

Clearly hesitant to give an honest reply, she gazed up at him with huge, solemn eyes.

“Tell me the truth, Raine Cameron,” he insisted. “You never showed the least tender feelings for me in all the years you’ve known me.”

“But neither would you have chosen me, Keir,” she protested. “We seem so ill suited, even now. How else can we explain these feelings except by the intervention of the Tuatha De Danann?”

“These feelings, Raine,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended, “are nothing more than carnal desire. A desire we can’t allow ourselves to indulge in, for I am honor bound to return you to your family, untouched and unharmed.”

Recognizing that it would be illogical to blame Raine for her naiveté or her unquestioning belief in magic, he rose from the bed. “Sleep here, if you’d like. I’ll be on deck most of the night. We sail to Cairn na Burg Mòr with all due speed.”

A
F
TER
K
EIR HAD
left, Raine retied the ribbons of her bodice, gathered up her shoes, stockings, and garters, and moved to her own quarters. Barrows had lit a lantern for her earlier, and its welcoming glow showed a cabin no longer Spartan in its furnishings as it had been upon her arrival. Bit by bit—since the day Keir had entered her quarters to scold her—sumptuous pillows, coverlets, tapestries and a rug had appeared without explanation.

From the deck above, Raine heard orders being called, along with the bosun’s shrill piping.

“All hands to make sail.”

“Away aloft.”

Wide awake now, she sat on the edge of her cot and listened to the now-familiar sounds of the ship getting under way.

Above deck the night watch weighed anchor. The top-men scurried up the ratlines in the moonlight and out onto the yards. In the glow of the
Raven
’s night lanterns, the sails were being unfurled and sheeted home. The feel of the ship gliding across the harbor’s still water, the sound of the creaking blocks overhead and the muffled calls from the quarterdeck had grown so familiar it seemed like a mother’s lullaby.

But lullaby or not, Raine couldn’t sleep.

Keir had clearly been upset at the very idea they’d been bound together at Calanais. The fact that he hadn’t been enticed by Lady Sutherland’s obvious invitation this evening had nothing to do with any tender feelings for Raine. The chief of Clan MacNeil had simply been too busy making plans to quell the rebellion to take time to bed Flora. Perhaps when the war was over, he and Flora would resume their tawdry alliance.

Thankfully, Raine hadn’t given in to the nigh overpowering yearning she’d felt for Keir when she awoke to find him bending over her. She needed to focus all of her attention on discovering a way to leave the ship and search for Torcall MacMurchaidh. After the fortress at Cairn na Burg Mòr fell, she might be able to convince Tam MacLean to help her. Perhaps he or Colin would loan her the coins needed to search for her natural father. In the meantime, she’d be careful not to bring up the subject of the Tuatha De Danann, for the mere mention of a faery enchantment only seemed to upset Keir.

Well, he could rebel against it all he liked. If they had truly been bound together as Raine suspected, there was nothing either of them could do to change it.

The memory of Keir fresh from his bath intruded on her pragmatic musings. The perfection of sinew and bone, of bulging muscles and flat planes, of tight buttocks and broad back, of the inked image of the
Black Raven
soaring across his shoulder blades and the battle scars etched across his chest hadn’t been—couldn’t be—forgotten. Bless her and save her, what woman in her right mind would want to forget such a magnificent sight?

But until she found her natural father, she couldn’t allow her feelings for Keir to distract her from her self-avowed quest.

K
E
IR SPENT THE
remainder of the night on the quarterdeck attempting to coax as much speed as possible from the weatherly galleon. The
Black
Raven
, close-hauled and running before the wind, was making eight knots, her stern lanterns turning her wake into a phosphorescent path behind her. The
Hawk
and the
Dragon
followed in line-ahead formation. They’d left the Loch of Dùn Bheagain and the Little Minch behind and were passing Point Neist, on the Isle of Skye. The three warships were cutting south-south-east through the Sea of the Hebrides. The weather was clear, and the constellations stood out like brilliant diamonds in the black velvet sky.

“ ’Tis safe to return to your quarters now,” Macraith told Keir cheerily as he came to join him by the starboard rail. “According to young Mr. MacFarlane, Lady Raine moved to her own cabin shortly after midnight.”

Keir had just taken another reading on his astrolabe. He barely glanced at his uncle. “Nothing happened between us, if that’s what you’re thinking. The lady remains as virginal as a postulant in a nunnery.”

“Aye, I’ve nay doubt,” Macraith replied. “Else you would nay be up here on deck in the middle of the night like a heartsick fool instead of snuggling with a bonny lassie in your soft warm bed.”

“Damn your eyes,” Keir snapped. “Keep your voice down and your opinions to yourself.” He glanced up into the shrouds to make sure no lookout was directly overhead, listening to their every word.

Aware of the officer of the watch at the mainmast, they moved closer to the railing before continuing their muted conversation.

“She’s nineteen, ye glaikit gomerel, not a child,” Macraith pointed out. “If it hadn’t been for Gideon Cameron’s untimely death, he’d have arranged a marriage when she turned seventeen. By now she’d be snug in some earl’s castle, bouncing a wee bairn on her knee, instead of traipsing about the Isles for God knows what purpose.”

“What I feel about Raine is irrelevant,” Keir replied in a low growl. “She deserves a man with a sterling pedigree. A laird born into a household of unblemished lineage.” Keir fisted his hands in frustration. “And you’re goddamn right—Raine would already be married to an earl, if Cameron hadn’t been murdered.”

“Hell, if you think you must be an earl before you can marry the lass, ask King Jamie for the title. I’m quite certain he’d be happy to oblige, if he hasn’t already made up his mind to it. Why, he’d joyfully attend your wedding and dance with the sonsy bride.”

“You forget,” Keir replied with biting self-derision, “I’m descended from a long line of murderous pirates. And by now—if Duncan Stewart has been successful in his negotiations—I’m already formally contracted to the maid of Strathfillan. Whoever does marry Lady Raine Cameron, it won’t be me.”

“Well, as to that,” Macraith said, “who’s to say your uncle entered into those negotiations with a full heart. The earl of Appin may have higher hopes for you than a loveless marriage with the timid daughter of Fillan MacNab.

Chapter 12

T
HREE DAYS LATER,
the
Black Raven
and her consorts arrived at Calgarraidh, on the Isle of Mull. That morning the wide, welcoming bay with its white, sandy beaches lay smothered in a dense fog, blocking the sight of the nearby Treshnish Isles and the fortress of Cairn na Burgh. But the sound of cannon fire floated across the water like distant thunder.

At six bells, Macraith came to stand beside Keir, just as the faintest beams of light broke through the fog on the eastern horizon. The ship came alive with activity to the sound of the bosun’s piping.

“Beat to quarters, Mr. MacFarlane,” Keir said to the tall midshipman standing nearby.

At the roll of the drum, the waking seamen poured out of the hatches and hurried across the deck to their stations, so well trained they could meet any emergency at sea in minutes. Keir had handpicked his crew for strength, agility, and courage under fire. He’d drilled the men with their guns daily, using empty barrels for targets. They’d frequently match one team against the other, seeing which gun crew could sink the barrels first. But there’d be no time for a drill today.

At the stern, Stark Buchanan, the ship’s best helmsman, used his brawn to control the tiller. Simon Ramsay stood on the forecastle deck as the
Raven
luffed into the harbor and hove to, followed by her sister ships.

“Mr. Ramsay,” Keir told his quartermaster, “signal the
Hawk
and the
Dragon
to inspect guns and crews. After breakfast we’ll proceed to Cairn na Burgh Mòr in line-ahead formation
.
”

Keir didn’t believe in sending his men into battle on empty stomachs. And there’d be no way to tell how long it would take to subdue Cairn na Burgh—not until he reached the fortress and could assess the damage already inflicted by the royal fleet. Soon the tantalizing smell of bacon floated up from the galleys.

“Aye, sir,” Ramsay replied. He turned, repeating the orders to the quartermaster’s mate responsible for the signal flags.

“Mr. Wyllie, prepare your gun crews for inspection,” Keir told the bosun.

With Macraith on one side and the ship’s Greek master gunner on the other, Keir walked through the gun deck, stopping at each long-range eighteen-pounder. At the moment the brass muzzle-loading cannon were lashed securely against the bulwarks, resting in place on their carriages.

“We’ll encounter choppy seas very shortly as we approach the mouth of the sea loch,” Keir told Apollonius. “The gun ports are to remain closed until we have the castle in sight and are ready to commence firing.” He turned to his uncle. “Has our chief navigator finished his morning prayers yet?”

Macraith nodded, pointing to the tall Moor coming toward them. “Here he is now, sir. Praying rug stowed away and ready to go to work. And I hope to God, he said a prayer for all of us.”

Attired in a caftan and loose trousers, Abid al-Rahman made a salaam, one hand touching his forehead, the other on the handle of his huge curved scimitar. “If it please you, sir, I’ll consult my charts once again and then direct the steersman to the mouth of Loch Tuath and the Treshnish Isles.” At Keir’s nod of assent, al-Rahman turned and left.

When they’d finished the inspection of the cannons on the gun deck, they proceeded to the main deck and the fore and aft guns, long-rage nine-pounders.

“You may pipe all hands to breakfast, Mr. Wyllie,” Keir said, pleased with what he’d seen.

At the bosun’s whistle, the sound of feet thundered across the scrubbed planking as the watches hurried to their mess.

Keir glanced at his uncle. “We’ll have breakfast now as well. God willing, by this afternoon all hell will break loose,” he said with a grin of anticipation.

Keir loved a battle—nearly as much as making love to a beautiful woman.

“D
URING OUR BOM
BARDMENT
of the castle, you’re to remain belowdecks,” Keir told Raine. “I don’t expect we’ll receive much damage from their cannon, but I want you in a safe place, all the same.”

They were seated at the table in Keir’s cabin, sharing breakfast with his uncle and the other officers, Buchanan, Ramsay, al-Rahman, and the galleon’s three midshipmen—Hector MacFarlane and the two Gibson brothers.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Raine looked around the table at the ferocious privateers—for the moment, officers in the king’s navy. From the tension visible on their faces, battle was imminent, though they appeared more excited than worried.

Raine felt her muscles tighten, till she worried her stiff, jerky movements would betray her own misgivings. If MacMurchaidh was in the fortress, he could very well be killed before she had the chance to speak with him. And if anything happened to Keir, Raine thought her heart might break—although she’d never admit it to him. Not for all the gold unicorns in Scotland.

“I brought my healing remedies from Archnacarry,” Raine said, keeping her hands folded tightly in her lap and out of sight under the table, so no one would notice her shaking fingers. “If anyone needs assistance with an injury, I’ll be able to help.”

Keir scowled at the suggestion, clearly unhappy at her offer. “These are not the simple cuts and burns you’ve been used to attending with your mother and aunt at the manor,” he said in a dismissive tone. “Barrows acts as our surgeon when need be. It can be quite a bloody mess in the cockpit.”

“I’m not squeamish at the sight of blood,” Raine assured him. “If I can be of any help at all, please allow me to do so.”

“Very well,” Keir agreed in a halfhearted manner. “But stay with Barrows at all times. We’ll bring any wounded belowdecks. If we do take a hit, flying shards of wood can cause amazing damage. Once the bombardment begins, I don’t want you sticking your head out of a hatch.” He paused and studied her through narrowed eyes, then added, “And I’d like your word on that, Lady Raine.”

Raine felt the heated flush of mortification creep up her neck and cheeks. Keir was apparently remembering the last time the
Raven
had sailed into a harbor intent on a siege. He’d believed her safe in the fishing village where he’d sent her. Every listener at the table knew the nearly disastrous consequences of her failure to follow their captain’s orders.

“You have my word,” she answered in a strangled voice. “During the bombardment of the castle, I will remain belowdecks. Where, by the way, is the cockpit?”

Ethan looked up from his plate and smiled knowingly, happy to give the answer. “That’s where my brother and I have our quarters,” the twelve-year-old lad informed her. “It’s on the after-part of the lowest deck.”

His blue eyes shining with pride, Robbie nodded. “During a battle, ’tis used as a station for the wounded. Then we have to scrub up the blood and gore before we can ready our cots for sleeping.”

“Barrows will take you there,” Keir told her. He seemed about to say more, then merely shook his head.

K
EIR STO
OD ON
the
Raven
’s quarterdeck, watching the royal fleet under the command of the earl of Huntly. The small ships lurched about in the churning sea with no sign of planned maneuvers or the least familiarity with naval warfare.

Some of the caravels had sustained direct hits, with masts and sails showing damage. A few were taking water in their bilges, for the pumps were sending gushers over the side, a sign they’d been struck below the waterline. Their gunners had tried unsuccessfully to bring the ships’ cannon to bear on the forbidding MacGillean stronghold perched on solid rock and protected by the surrounding cliffs.

The rough water and Huntly’s lack of expertise at gunnery had failed to produce any sign of significant damage to the fortress. ’Twas apparent neither the king’s kinsman, the earl of Arran, nor his principal gunner had arrived yet with extra gunpowder and greater experience at sighting cannon on a moving deck.

Macraith, standing next to Keir, shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted against the sun. “How likely is it that Donald Dubh and Torcall MacMurchaidh are guests of MacGillean of Duart, do you think?”

“Nothing is certain,” Keir replied. “As we both know, the clan chiefs shift their allegiance from the lord of the Isles to King James and back again, depending on which way the wind is blowing. Other than the ships under my command, I trust no one. Not even the king’s royal lieutenant, Archibald Campbell, wherever the hell he is.”

“Aye,” Macraith agreed, “somewhere safe, no doubt.” He spat over the side in disgust. “That damn pawky Argyll is a close kinsman to both MacMurchaidh and MacGillean. And Donald Dubh is Campbell’s bastard grandson, not that it’s likely to help the lad any. ’Twould be like having Satan himself as your grandsire. Argyll enjoys playing both sides against the middle, if ’twill line his pockets with gold or increase the size of his lands.”

The two MacNeils, nephew and uncle, turned their gazes away from the king’s floundering ships and studied their target.

The fortifications of Cairn na Burgh Castle straddled two islands guarding the entrance of Loch Tuath along the western side of Mull. The larger island of Cairn na Burgh Mòr, a solid block of granite rising sheer from the sea and protected by strong, treacherous currents, was almost impregnable. On it stood the main part of the fortress—including the barrack block, chapel, courtyard, and guardhouse. On Cairn na Burgh Beag, there was a second guardhouse and a well.

Although the castle was protected by the surrounding high cliffs, over the centuries it had changed hands more than once, for its position was of strategic importance to the southern Hebrides.

Earlier, as the
Raven
approached the scene of battle, Keir had signaled the commander of the royal fleet to withdraw to a safe distance. Now the three full-rigged galleons
, Raven
,
Hawk
, and
Dragon,
maneuvered into battle-line formation and the gun ports were opened.

Great puffs of smoke followed by the sound of artillery came from Cairn na Burgh’s iron cannon mounted on their stationary emplacements along the parapets, as the defenders sighted the newly arrived ships.

A cannonball whizzed through the
Raven
’s rigging, blowing a hole in her main-topsail. Another crashed onto the deck, smashing one of the boats and sending splinters in every direction. Ethan Gibson, who’d been carrying a cask of gunpowder from below to the bow guns, grabbed his left thigh with a grunt of pain and dropped to his knees. Robbie raced across the deck to his brother’s side.

“Take him below,” Keir shouted. “Barrows will see to him.”

Davie Swinton, the ship’s stocky barrel maker, scooped the lad up in his brawny arms and carried him down an open hatchway, while Robbie picked up the fallen cask of powder and hurried toward the forecastle guns.

Keir could see Colin on the
Hawk
’s quarterdeck and Fearchar standing at the
Dragon
’s starboard railing beyond. Both captains were waiting calmly for Keir’s signal to begin the shelling. Their decks had been cleared for action as they’d cruised closer to the fortress in line-ahead formation under main and foretopsails.

“Silence, fore and aft,” Macraith shouted.

“Signal the
Hawk
and the
Dragon
to commence firing at will, Mr. Ramsay,” Keir said. The quartermaster’s mate hurried to raise the signal flags.

Below, on the
Raven
’s gun deck, the crews waited impatiently for the order to fire.

“On the top of the roll,” Keir told his master gunner. “Fire as they bear.”

Apollonius shouted the order, to be repeated through the hatches covered by screens to the gun crews, who’d already sighted their cannon and now brought their slow-matches to the touchholes. With mighty explosions, the great guns lurched and recoiled one after another, as the crews jumped aside just in time to avoid being crushed. With the rolling broadside from the
Black Raven
, followed by her sister ships, the final bombardment of Cairn na Burgh had begun.

The three galleons’ long-range brass cannon pounded the thick stone walls of the fortress, striking the parapets along the bartizan with the intent of dismantling their immovable guns. The gatehouse with its iron portcullis caved and fell inward. Great gaping holes appeared in the curtain walls and the round tower above the guardhouse slowly tilted to one side before crashing into the bailey below. Huge clouds of smoke obscured most of the destruction, but the sound of carnage carried over the water to mingle with the cheers of the gun crews after making a direct hit.

“Cease fire,” Keir ordered. “Lower the boats.”

“Landing parties away,” his uncle shouted to the armed seamen waiting on deck for the order.

Leading his men, Keir scrambled over the gunwale with Macraith alongside. Al-Rahman, his curved scimitar jammed in his wide blue sash, followed right behind them. The
Raven
’s crewmen clambered down the rope ladders and into the longboats, armed with boarding axes, broadswords, and cutlasses.

Cutting through the roiling waves surging onto the shore, the landing boats from the
Black Raven
, the
Sea Dragon,
and the
Sea Hawk
headed toward Cairn na Burg Castle and the doomed rebels.

R
AINE HAD CHANGED
from her gown into her shirt and trousers before going to the lower deck to assist Barrows. After Swinton carried Ethan into the cockpit and hurried back to the main deck, Barrows carefully extracted the wood splinters from the lad’s thigh.

Working by the dim light of a lantern hung from a beam overhead, Raine helped her sea-daddy inspect the raw wound, making certain they’d removed all the slivers and shredded pieces of cloth. Then Raine applied a salve her aunt had packed in her satchel, and Barrows gave Ethan a small tumbler of wine to ease the pain. Together Barrows and Raine bandaged the lacerated leg and waited for more injured to arrive in the cramped space.

After the sound of shelling ceased, Raine hurried up to the forecastle railing and gazed across the choppy water to the castle. Although small fires still blazed in parts of the fortress and some of the walls had crumbled under the artillery barrage, the thick walls of the keep remained intact. During the fighting, the women and children would have withdrawn to the safety of the donjon tower, much as she’d been shielded from harm deep inside the ship’s lower deck.