Page 10 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

“Here.” There was a harshness in her tone as she signaled to the leading oarsman. The seven men were settling into their seats, taking up their oars with one oar resting athwart and a vacant space on the bench.

Maxwell took his seat beside one of the men who’d complained about him the night before. He was older than Maxwell, his hands cracked and calloused from his years behind the oars. As Maxwell sat, the man sneered.

“Let us see how ye fare now.” With that she swiveled and without further words headed back along the deck, leaving Maxwell seething. With her orders and her contempt for him, the lass was far too big for her boots. He bit his tongue on a retort aimed at deflating her importance. At least for now, the power rested with Aileen. She was the captain and he was under no illusion that, should she wish it, the Irishman would tip him overboard without a moment’s hesitation.

As he bent himself to the oars, he became heated despite the icy breeze. He removed his cloak and then his shirt, as did most of the other men, displaying brawny arms and strong backs. Determined to gain the friendship of at least one man on board, Maxwell ignored the obvious disdain of the man seated beside him.

“This is nay work fer weak men.”

The man grunted his assent and Maxwell sensed a softening in his attitude.

“Ye’re right, lad. Ye’ll swiftly find out what it means to hold an oar on this vessel.”

In response to his prodding, he discovered that the man’s name was Bran. He was a Viking who’d been captured by the pirates when he and his crew were, themselves, intent on raiding.

At one point, noting that the rhythm of Maxwell’s rowing was growing ragged and threatened to unbalance the rowers, Bran whispered, “Count between strokes, and stay in time with the others. If yer bad rowing sends our ship to the bottom ye’ll die wi’ us.”

Maxwell thanked him and seized an opening. “I ken we’re headed north, Bran.”Two…three…four… “Can ye tell me where we’re destined for?”Two…three…four.“Is it near or far?” Maxwell held his breath, praying they were not bound to travel any great distance If they were ashore before they travelled much further, he could escape. He could make it to Barra alone, travelling at night.

“I dinnae ken the names of these Scottish places,” Bran said, grudgingly, “Only that it’s the home of Sutherland we’re bound fer.” He pronounced the name as “Southland” but Maxwell quickly surmised he must be speaking of Dunrobin, where the notorious Laird Andrew Sutherland had his castle.

Heart sinking, he gritted his teeth. There was a great distance yet to go to reach Dunrobin and with every hour his chances of escape lessened alarmingly.

It was closing on darkness before the men were relieved of their oars and another group of men took to the benches. Maxwell donned his shirt and cloak, his shoulders aching mightily and his arms quivering like jellies. His palms were covered in blisters. And all this, after only one day at the oars.

His only sustenance since he’d broken his fast had been a bowl of broth served to the rowers when they had had a brief moment’s respite before resuming their task. He was almost mad with hunger when Finn appeared, wrapped from head to toe in a heavy woolen cloak and bade him to follow her.

Her disapproval seemed to radiate in waves toward him and he held back from attempting any conversation. He’d have liked to ply her with questions about the captain and what linked her to that dastardly Sutherland. The answers would come soon enough.

Mayhap Aileen would be waiting in the cabin. His mouth watered as he pictured her there, the table spread with a repast of roast beef, neeps and carrots, and an overflowing jug of warm mead. But his fantasy died with a curt, “Wait here,” from Finn and he was left outside, cooling his heels.

He squatted on the deck, resting his head against a timber stanchion. He was dozing when Aileen’s voice roused him.

“If ye wish tae spend the night out here in the wind, I bid ye good luck, MacNeil. If nae, I’ll invite ye tae join me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The evening fare was as sparse as that of the morning. Maxwell was presented with more of the broth he and the other men been given at midday, with the addition of a few nettles and dandelion leaves. Under Finn’s watchful eye he also served himself several slices of haggis with bannocks and oatcakes.

He made short work of his repast and rose to his feet, his glance darting from Aileen to Finn and back to the captain. Both lasses held him in a stony gaze.

“I assume I’ll be taking me place at the oars tomorrow so before I bed down for the night, I’d appreciate some linen to wind over my hands.’’ Raising his hands, he displayed the angry blisters. “I’ll dae a better job fer ye if I tend to these.”

Aileen and Finn exchanged glances, Aileen nodding almost imperceptibly.

“I’ll help ye with that.” Finn disappeared behind the curtain and emerged with a stout wooden box. She took out a small jar of ointment and he winced as she smeared a little of the pungent cream on his reddened palms. Then she took a strip of linen and bound both his hands.

He favored her with a gentle smile. “Thank ye fer yer kindness, lass.”

Aileen scoffed, not wishing him to think they were softening toward him. “Ye’ll serve us better on the oars if yer hands are cared fer. Ye’re nay more tae us than our tool, MacNeil, and we look after our tools well.”

He turned to go. “I bid ye goodnight, ladies.”

“Hold.”

At Aileen’s command, he stopped in his tracks. “What now?”

“I dinnae trust ye nae tae ferment discontent among the oarsmen. I’ll nay have ye making offers tae any man tae join ye in an attempt tae flee our hospitality.”

---