Page 23 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

Séamus stopped his sharpening of a blade on the whetstone and looked up. “Ye’re nay gullible enough tae believe the lad isnae intent on escaping? Surely nae man in his right mind would wish tae accompany us tae Dunrobin.”

Aileen shook her head. “Mayhap he has lost his mind, but I ken in me heart he willnae escape. I have an idea he intends tae confront the laird.”

Séamus gave a disbelieving snort. “Sutherland will make short work of him.”

“I’m nae so sure of that, Séamus. Ye’ve seen the inks across the lad’s body, along his arms, even on his neck.”

“Aye. I’ve never seen a lad as marked as he is.”

Aileen gave a soft laugh. “Fer each of those marks, ye can count a foe he’s killed. Maxwell MacNeil is the clan War Chief. He’s a renowned warrior so I’d nae discount him in a conflict wi’ Sutherland.”

“I’d like tae see it.” He went back to polishing a heavy two-handed sword.

Finn glanced at Aileen. “Is this yer plan? Tae pit MacNeil against Sutherland so that we can make our way out of Dunrobin and flee tae another place?”

Aileen thought of that for a minute. A possibility was dawning. “I’ve naye plan, Finn. But mayhap me mind is moving in that direction.” A pulse in her throat beat faster as she allowed herself to contemplate freedom from the man to whom she’d been trapped in servitude for too long.

Séamus drove the men hard during the day and into the darkness. He aimed at them making as much distance as possible while the weather held. They rested at their oars, and when the morning came again, with its sky streaked with pink, they were urged on again.

It was only at dusk of their second night of hard slogging, that the men were allowed to take a break.

Aileen conferred with Séamus, Finn and Ewen. “Thanks tae ye and all the men, we’ve made such headway that come tomorrow we’ll be round the headland and heading south toward Dunrobin.”

“Aye.” Séamus managed one of his rare smiles. “And tonight, the men deserve a rest.”

Ewen, his clay pipe between his teeth nodded. “Happy men work harder than surly ones. It so happens that we’re close tae a wee village that has a fine inn that welcomes sailors.”

Aileen laughed. “Ye want me permission taego ashore and carouse the night away.”

Seamus and Finn exchanged looks. Finn grinned. “Och, Captain. Couldnae we all dae wi’ some merriment. The Lord kens there’ll be little mirth once we arrive at Dunrobin.”

This reminder fell on Aileen shoulders like a black cloud. She nodded slowly. “Aye. Time ashore has indeed been earned. I’ll grant the crew one night.” Before Finn could respond, she added, “But make sure there’s nae sore heads slowing us down next day.” She turned to the others, “And that goes fer ye three as well.”

Finn gave her a mischievous look, one eyebrow raised. “And does that apply tae ye also Captain?”

Aileen’s only reply was “Tish, tish tae yer cheek.”

She returned to the cabin, noting her decision in the notes she was writing in the log. She was well aware that Sutherland went over everything, missing nothing, and every hour needed accounting for. But once she’d granted time ashore, there wasno accounting for what the men – or herself, for that matter – might get up to.

Once the word circulated that they were heading for land and would be able to spend the night ashore, a cheer went up from the tired crew. Aileen smiled to herself. They’d find new energy to guide the little ship into a safe berth and spend their night in revelry.

Aileen took more care with how she looked than usual, brushing her hair until it floated like a cloud over her shoulders and down her back, a few feather-soft ringlets framing her face. She donned an almost clean, woven, red-wool skirt and white stockings, a pale green linen shirt that she’d been told made much of her green eyes, and a luxurious white fur tunic her father had gifted her long ago.

She told herself that this unwonted fussing was naught to do with Maxwell MacNeil but everything to do with changing her appearance from piratical to something approaching a normal, everyday lass.

With Finn beside her and Séamus guiding them, they stepped over the side into the knee-high water. They had their boots tied around their necks and she and Finn held their skirts and cloaks high, while Séamus had rolled up his kilt and fastened it into his belt. She was surprised and delighted to find Maxwell on the shore awaiting them, holding a lantern high. He’d been in such high dudgeon when they’d last spoken that she’d wondered if he’d ever wish to be anywhere near her again.

He reached out to help her as she took her last steps onto the pebbly beach. Clasping his big hand, she managed to bite her tongue on the words “I can manage very well without your help.” She sparkled a smile of thanks at him instead.

While they put on their boots and adjusted their clothes he waited, an amused smile lighting his face. She couldn’t help noticing that his wild raven-locks had been tied with a leather strip at his nape. Beneath his plaid cloak he wore his same shirt, now torn and grubby and the worse for wear. But someone must have given him a leather vest that covered some of the grime.

She looked him up and down admiringly as they marched along the path leading from the shore to the Flying Fish Inn. Grime or no grime, there was no denying it; Maxwell MacNeil was the finest figure of a man she’d ever clapped eyes on.

“’The inn looks like a place where blood might be shed.” He muttered as they stepped into the noisy, smoky interior, breathing in the smells of peat, ale and sweaty bodies. He threw a glance at Aileen as if expecting her to reel back in horror at his words.

“Aye. ‘Tis a wicked place, MacNeil. All sorts are washed in here from the sea. Smugglers, pirates, and escaping slaves. ‘Tis a place of rowdy brawling sailors and bawdy women.”

MacNeil shook his head. “Nae place fer a lady.”

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