DARE THE WILD WIND (38 page)

"I suppose it will do me no good to forbid you to come walking out on these paths alone,"  he remarked as he stood beside her on the wind
  whipped heights. 

"You forget I grew up in the
Highlands," she reminded him.

"Next you'll tell me you're agile as a mountain goat," he said with a short laugh.  "I've known you long enough not to give orders you won't obey.  But promise me you'll keep an eye out for the weather and take care."

Brenna was aware he had purposely taken the time to show her the safer paths and warn her from others before she explored the hazards of the promontory on her own.  "Since you don't forbid me," she said, "I'll freely give my word."

Despite his absences at Carn Sennon, their isolation drew them together.  And Brenna had added cause to want peace between them.  Though it was too soon to raise Drake's hopes, Brenna was all but certain she was carrying his child.  Confirming it would mean calling in a physician from Saint Ives.  As long as her morning nausea quickly faded and she felt fit, Brenna would prefer to wait until she needed the care of a doctor. 

Only Martine knew of her bouts with  morning sickness, and Brenna had sworn her to secrecy. 

"But
madame
, when will you tell the Earl? 
Certainement
, he will be overjoyed."

Brenna splashed her face with cold water from the basin in her chamber, feeling restored now that her morning ordeal had passed.  "I mean to give him the news as soon as he's back at Penherion."

Drake had been away for nearly a week dealing with tradesmen in
Truro.  He would return in a few days.  Then Brenna could no longer conceal her condition.  And despite her first twinge of regret the child wasn't Cam's, she was too elated to hide it.  Drake's cutting comment about an heir on their wedding day still rankled, but it was natural for any man to want a son to carry on his name.  And if the babe was a girl, surely Drake would warm to his own blood.  Having conceived, she was reassured she wasn't barren.  There could be more children, whatever the sex of their firstborn child.

Though the north coast of
Cornwall didn't boast the subtropical climate of Falmouth or the Scilly Isles, the weather had grown milder with June.  Keeping to the safer paths, Brenna continued to take her walks, occasionally still descending to the village.  Most of the fishermen spoke a mix of English and Cornish, and Brenna understood  more and more of what they said.  Their old tongue was Celtic, kindred to the Gaelic of Scotland, and they seemed pleased that she made the effort to learn.  And the staff at Penherion, drawn chiefly from the village, began to warm to her as well.

That afternoon the morning's balmy skies darkened with a summer squall, forcing her back to Penherion.  The violent winds quickly died, but after the cloudburst, a slow silver veil of rain continued to fall, cloaking Penherion in a ghostly shroud.

The weather cleared only after n
ightfall, when a three quarter moon emerged from the ragged clouds.  To her surprise as she gazed out the drawing room window, she caught the white flash of sails beyond the headland.  A ship tacked into the narrow mouth of the bay. In the moonlight she couldn't make out damage to the masts from the storm, and with a chill, it struck her that the brigantine sliding into the harbor might be a renegade.  Drake had said smugglers plied Cornwall's coast.     

Could the captain somehow know Penherion's master was away?  From the house the village was hidden below the cliffs, and Brenna could see no telltale flicker of a lantern signaling to the ship.  The brigantine might only have sought shelter from another oncoming storm, or be putting in to the village for supplies.  And even if the ship carried contraband, she could hardly wield a sword or confront the crew with a brace of pistols, least of all in her present condition.  Let the King's men collect his taxes.  Brenna had no cause to weep over any loss to his German Majesty's coffers. 

She turned away to find a novel by Defoe in the tapestry
  hung library.  But try as she might to read, the words blurred before her.  She went again to the window.  And, with a sinking sensation, she saw movement on the path that led up from the village.

Where was the villager bound?  To report the ship's arrival to Drake's steward in his quarters?  If the figure on the cliff was bound to alert Jared Roslyn, it confirmed Drake's suspicions.  And, despite all her efforts at indifference, Brenna had to know.

Below stairs she moved quietly but quickly along the damp, chill passage that led past the kitchens to the servants's quarters.  The steward's domain sat apart from the common rooms for the unmarried, and half a dozen cubbyholes allotted to those who were husband and wife.  But Brenna would have to edge past the steps to the kitchen, then slip undetected to a spot outside the steward's quarters, where she could watch for anyone who entered.

She would never feel safe at Penherion if Drake's steward was in league with smugglers.  And she knew all the Setons could feel the sting of royal displeasure if it ever appeared Drake turned a blind eye to illicit business on any of his estates. 

Intent on hurrying past the glare of the torch that lit the dim corridor, Brenna stiffened at a sudden sound behind her.

"M'lady?"

Brenna whirled.  But it was only one of the kitchen girls, a woolen shawl wrapped about her shoulders.  "Elyn, you startled me." 

"Truly, 'tis you," the girl said in relief.  "I feared 'twas a ghost."

Brenna wanted to shake the girl for halting her here in sight of anyone who came their way.  "Surely you don't believe in ghosts?  And surely your work is done for the day?"

"Aye, m'lady, it is.  And I do.  Believe in ghosts, I mean.  I thought you were the gray lady."

Brenna bit her tongue to keep from scolding Elyn.  Every castle had its ghosts.  They gave the servants stories to shiver to by the fire, but she didn't want to hear about this one now.

"I wouldn't put any stock in ghosts.  I only want a word with Mister Roslyn.  There isn't any need for you to linger."

"Oh, Mister Roslyn isn't in his room," Elyn said quickly.  "He took supper in the village tonight."

Brenna stared at Elyn.  "He hasn't returned?"  She paused a second.  "I thought I saw him on the cliff path."

"That was my brother from the village.  He came running just now to tell the news.  There's a ship in the harbor, all the way from the Sugar Isles."

"The
West Indies?" Brenna repeated in surprise.

"Aye, m'lady, halfway 'round the world."  Elyn forgot caution in her excitement, and now Brenna understood the shawl on a summer's night.  Elyn meant to go down to the beach to see.

"Nate says some of their water casks broke loose in the storm, and they've put in for fresh water."  Her eyes sparkled. "And that the captain is a fine handsome man with a Scot's burr on his tongue."

A Scot.  How long since Brenna had heard a Scottish voice? 

"Did the captain say where in Scotland the ship is bound?"

Some of Elyn's jaunty air wilted.  "Ah, no, m'lady.  I'd never think he would."  Brenna sent her a sharp questioning look, and she went on reluctantly.  "'Tis a freebooter, flying the pirate flag."

"At Penherion?"  A chill crept up the back of Brenna's neck.

"No cause to fear," Elyn assured her hastily.  "The captain has given his word he hasn't come to rob or plunder."

"And the villagers trust in the word of a pirate?"

"Needs must, m'lady.  Our village lads could scarce drive them off with rocks and clubs."  Mischief lit in her eyes.  "And French privateers have put into our harbor before
, and made merry when it pleased them."

Elyn was clearly eager at the prospect.  "Elyn, you mustn't go down to the
village.  Those men could harm you."

"No crew that takes shelter in
Cornwall would dare," she flashed indignantly.  "Our lads couldn't stand against them in the village, but they could wreck any ship before it left the harbor."

Just as Drake had said
.  There was wrecking on this coast.  And if the villagers weren't hand  in glove with smuggling, they opened their arms to enemies of the Crown.

Bren
na had to rouse the servants. 

"That may be, but I want every door to the house barred."  She started toward the kitchen stairs, Elyn following hastily after her. 

"Oh, mistress, there's no need to lock us up in the house.  Nate's a shrewd judge of men, and he vows Captain MacCavan is a fine fair sort."

Brenna halted, turned to a pillar of salt.  When she tried to speak, there was a stone in her throat.  "Captain MacCavan?"

"Aye, m'lady, wearing a
Highland plaid across his shoulder and a Stuart cockade on his hat."

"Did your brother tell you the captain's Christian name?" Brenna's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"He announced himself to the whole village
.  Iain MacCavan, captain of the
Red Witch
."

Iain
.  Free of English bonds.  Escaped, somehow, from transportation to the colonies.  Her oldest childhood friend, here, within reach, in the village below.  Brenna's limbs thawed. 

"To the kitchen, quickly.  Find a lantern to light our way."

Neither Elyn's protests nor the steep rocky path to the village could deter Brenna from seeing Iain again.  Iain was her last link to the dreams of her girlhood, to the days when they had roamed Lochmarnoch Wood with
Cam. 

When they gained the village at last, the brigantine lay at anchor in the narrow deep inlet, and Brenna could see longboats beached on the sand.  And the blaze of a great bonfire at the edge of the water, surrounded by a mass of figures silhouetted against the flames, stamping and jigging and bellowing out a bawdy song to the scratchy music of a fiddle.

Villagers and sailors mingled, some of the women already wandering into the darkness with members of the crew.  Drink flowed freely, and it was a scene from a pagan rite.  All rules of moral conduct were forgotten for one careless, heedless night.  And Elyn's excitement beside her told Brenna that this was the real reason the village welcomed the ships. 

For one night, their harsh Spartan existence could be livened by bacchanal, without recrimination or blame.  For who could gainsay armed men who bought drink with their gold, and who would take what they found if favors weren't freely given?

They had reached the fringe of the crowd, and Brenna pushed through, stretching on tiptoe to see, searching for Iain's fair head.  But the wide
shouldered, familiar figure at the center of the revel didn't belong to Iain. 

The captain
of the
Red Witch
was Cam.

      Chapter 21

Brenna swayed and shut her eyes for a second. 
Cam was alive.  And striding toward her with a look of shock and joy on his face.

"Brenna?"  He caught her up in his arms, holding her so tightly she couldn't breathe.  "Great God, how did you come here?"

Speechless, on the brink of tears, elation sang through Brenna at the solid feel of him.  He pulled a little away to look at her.

"What's this?" he joked, his voice low and unsteady. "Dismay to see me?"  He brushed with a gentle finger at the betraying wetness of her lashes.  With an effort, Brenna found her voice. 

"They said you'd been hanged.  They told me you were dead."

"It takes more than an English rope to hang me," he said in his old reckless way.  But his blue gaze held hers, solemn.  "And more than an ocean between us to keep me from coming back to you."

Her heart soared at his words, and only the smallest question surfaced.  "How could you know I was at Penherion?"

He set her back on her feet.  "I didn't.  I was sailing the
Red Witch
to the Firth of Lorne."

A new burst of raucous laughter all but drowned what he said, and he glanced around at his roistering crew. 

We can't talk in this madness."  He took Brenna by the arm.  "Come aboard, where we can have some peace and privacy."

W
th two crewmen in a longboat, they cast off from the pebble strewn beach.  The water was choppy, and opposite her, Cam said little, pressing her hands in his, looking at her as if he couldn't get his fill.  Brenna rejoiced at the warm pressure of his fingers over hers, bone and flesh, proof this wasn't a dream.

As
they bobbed and nosed toward the brigantine, she saw the decks had been cut down.  In the leaping light from the fire on the beach, she could make out a garishly painted form on the prow.  The figurehead thrust skyward above them, teeth bared in her wooden face, hair the scarlet of the letters on the hull, clothed in a blood red gown.

C
am laughed at her expression.  "Fit for my purpose.  The sight of the
Red Witch
strikes terror in any prize.  She's the devil's own consort.  And mine."

The sailors beached their oars, and the longboat bumped against the side of the ship.  A rope ladder dangled above them, and
Cam mounted it, helping her up over the side.   On deck, she looked up at the skull grinning from the banner fixed to the mast.