Page 36 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

This appeared to mollify Sutherland. “Mayhap ye’d be more comfortable in yer chamber where ye can attend to…” He gestured to his lip. “I’ll have the scullery maids take yer meal tae ye.” He snapped his fingers at the two guards at his door.

“Escort him back tae his chamber.”

The door closed behind Maxwell and the two guards.

“Take yer at seat at the table lass.”

He gestured to the polished oak table, its settings of silver shining in the warm light of a large candelabra. If she’d not known the truth, this would have appeared to be the height of opulent hospitality. Yet beneath its glowing surface was a cesspool of corruption and cruelty.

The servant pulled out the chair for her and she sat. Her hands shook as she reached for the goblet of wine the maid poured for her. There was a third place setting that Aileen assumed had been for Maxwell. No doubt the punishment Maxwell would be dealt would surpass anything she’d seen before. No one had stood up to Sutherland as he’d done.

As each course was served Andrew became more attentive.

“That gown is very becoming, my sweet.” His eyes were focused on the expanse of naked breast it exposed. “Notwithstanding those long sleeves.”

She smiled politely, forking at her tasteless food, assailed by nausea with every mouthful she swallowed.

Finally, she could bear it no longer. “I am too tired tae eat any more, me laird. Fatigue is claiming me and I fear I shall nae be able tae hold my eyes open much longer.”

“I am sorry tae hear it. But, of course, ye’ve been sailing all day and ye must be exhausted by now.”

If she’d not known him, she might have been convinced of his concern for her. Yet, it was merely part of his game to confuse her. She gritted her teeth. His punishment was yet to be dealt.

He rose and accompanied her to the door, where he again took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Rest well, fer tomorrow ye’ll be watching the first day of punishment I intend inflicting onthat pox-ridden upstart, MacNeil… and me dear, forget nae tae wear yer gloves.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Once Aileen was clear of the solar, the door closed firmly behind her, she allowed herself to breathe again. Although she’d been right about Sutherland’s game, she felt no sense of triumph, only something akin to a horror that turned her flesh to ice. Now there was no possibility of doubt. The plan was set. She simply had to set it in motion.

She hastened back to her chamber and changed from the hated damask gown into a sturdy pair of breeches and laced-front shirt. She pulled on a knitted wool tabard in a colorful Fair Isle pattern she’d purchased years ago in Jura and over this she placed a fur-lined tunic. She rolled on a pair of thick woolen stockings and slung her feet into a pair of leather boots, laced to the knee.

Once she was dressed for travel her plan felt all the more real.

She hunted around and found a piece of parchment in one of her drawers. She tore it in half, hoping it would seem that she’d clutched it in haste. She took out her quill and lightly dippedit into the ink bottle. Again, hoping the scratchy, faint writing would mimic the appearance of a writer under duress. She scribbled the letter as her father had suggested with a scrawled signature at the bottom. Remembering her father’s other clever suggestion, she used her dirk and pierced her finger tip. As the blood welled up, she allowed a drop to fall on the parchment.

She regarded the note with satisfaction. It looked exactly as she’d hoped, as if it were written in haste by someone who could well have a dirk at their throat. She could only pray it would be enough to convince Sutherland that she was leaving against her will and he would spare the life of Barclay MacAlpin.

After that, she went in search of Finn. She found her sharing an ale with Séamus.

They looked up as she slipped into his chamber.

“I’m leaving,” she said, sounding way more confident than she felt. “I’m doing what ye both urged. I’ll be gone from here with MacNeil this night. Ye must say ye kent nothing of me plans.”

She spied the trusty ebony truncheon on the table, the very weapon that had knocked Maxwell senseless.

“Séamus, lad. I cannae help but think I’ve a greater need fer yer rod that yerself.”

With a rueful grin he reached over for the weapon and hoisted it up. “Alas, Captain. I believe it will have more use in yer companythan resting here wi’ me.” He handed over the heavy timber baton.

Aileen swung it, testing the weight. “Aye, this will crack a few heads I daresay.”

“Have ye a decent sword?” Seamus was already passing her a solid wooden box. She opened it and nestled there was a fine claymore, it’s metal handle embellished with a French design. Beside it was a bone-handled knife.

“I can vouch for their sharpness. He has honed them both to the sharpest of blades.”

Aileen looked at the immaculate weapons. “Aye, I could dae wi’ these. Mayhap MacNeil can wield the claymore wi’ a little more speed than I can, but I’d match him any day with the shorter blade. But, Séamus, these are yer pride. I cannae take them.”

He shook his head. “Ye’ll thank me before ye’ve travelled far on yer journey.”

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