Page 14 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

Maxwell studied her as she pulled open the cupboard and took a large carafe off the shelf. She poured two pots of the ruby liquid and handed one to him.

For the first time since they’d met, she was smiling at him. It was a warm, unfeigned smile from the heart that made him smile in return. The sharp lines around her cheeks had faded, her face glowed in the candle light, her cat’s-eyes sparked as she caught his gaze on her. He caught his breath – she was beautiful.

She raised the pot. “Slàinte mhath,” they both chorused and each took a gulp of the stolen French wine.

“Ah. Delicious.” Maxwell sighed. All at once it seemed ridiculous to be sailing a wild sea, crouched in this tiny lean-to with the wind howling and shrieking around them, quaffing the finest of wine in the company of a beautiful woman who had kidnapped him. After all, that woman was a lawless pirate, dangerous and ruthless. He was being held hostage, journeying to God-alone-knows-where, a dubious fate awaiting him. He sighed again and took another mouthful.

“I’ve long heard of yer faither. A man feared by many. I take it that practicing the sweet trade of piracy runs in yer family, Captain.”

Her smile faded and she placed her wine on the table. “Aye, that it daes, MacNeil. Me faither before me, and me braither, whose life was taken much too early. Just as fighting, stealing cattle and land runs in yours.”

Dipping his head, he kept his grin hidden. “Ye’re right, lass. Mayhap ye and meself are nae such different creatures after all.”

She huffed, but he sensed a softening in her attitude that encouraged him to keep on.

“Pray tell me this, what d’ye want with me braither, the laird? Why is it of such import that ye capture him?”

Fer a moment he could see behind her eyes. What he glimpsed was an instant of hurt and despair. Then she shook her head as if dispelling the temptation to tell him more, and when she met his gaze, her eyes told him nothing. The moment was lost, she had closed herself to him.

She leaned over and refilled his wine. “Drink up, lad, ye may never again have an opportunity such as this.”

He grabbed the rough pot and took another swig of the wine, taking a moment to swirl it on his tongue. “If I’m tae earn another superb full-bodied claret such as this, mayhap I need tae save yer life more often.”

“Indeed.” She offered a wry expression. “Me life may well need tae be saved before much time has passed.”

Resisting the urge to ask her any further questions, Maxwell allowed Aileen’s enigmatic words to hang in the air between them.Piracy is a dangerous trade, but is there something else that could put her life in jeopardy?

He was saved from further conversation as the ship gave a sudden lurch, sending the carafe and its remnants of the claret skidding across the tabletop. Aileen grabbed their pots and Maxwell snatched up the carafe as it flew off the table. The ship rolled back in the opposite direction while they braced their feet and clung to the heavy oak table which was held to the floor by stout iron nails.

Aileen stumbled to her feet. “The wind has picked up; I’d best check the crew and the rudder. This is the storm that’s been building all day, we’re still some distance from the nearest shelter.”

She snatched up her cloak and took off, leaving Maxwell holding on as the pitching intensified, his stomach roiling as the sickening heaving and seesawing kept on without respite. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath and slowly exhaled, willing the seasickness away.

“Ye can dae this lad,” he muttered to himself as he levered himself up from the chair and took two swaying steps to the door. He held tight to the timber surround for another moment before launching himself into the darkness where the crew were battling the storm as it spewed foam across the decks and almost swallowed the ship with every wave.

He had no choice but to endure the nausea and his spinning head, and join with the crew.

The sea was surging and boiling, throwing itself at the ship with extraordinary vigor, salty spray rising from the depths and, if Maxwell had not reached the mast and wrapped his arms around it there was every chance he’d have been washed overboard.

Lightning flashed, momentarily lighting their path among the furiously swelling white-caps. Then came the crash of thunder overhead. The storm was all around them.

Already, the oarsmen were at their places as Maxwell stumbled over the deck to join them, the chief oarsman chivying him to take his place with all speed. As they bent their backs to oars, the wind struggled against their pulling and heaving, trying to turn them, the mast dipping, the sea sluicing in relentless deluges as they hauled and stretched in a fight for their lives.

He could only imagine Sea, lashed to the tiller, using all his strength to try and hold steady, perhaps with both Aileen and Finn lending him their strength.

The hours rolled on and Maxwell, scarcely aware of anything beyond the relentless forward and back of the oars, kept time with the other men. He was oblivious to the ache in his shoulders and the sting of the new blisters over where the old blisters were. He joined in their ragged songs, raising their voices to maintain their tired rhythm as the onslaught of the storm kept on.

Then, when it seemed everyone on board would simply collapse, exhausted, and allow the storm to win, the rudder turned, the ship moved closer to shore, and they made their way out of the boiling sea into a calmer, gentler place. They’d entered anaust,a cut in the banks beyond the rocks. A safe haven where a birlinn could ride out the hours until a storm subsided and they could continue on their way.

The men, groaning at their oars, pulled with a new, raw burst of energy. The sailors in the rigging slowly descended to the deck, stretching, revolving their shoulders, breathing deeply after the hours spent aloft among the straining sails.

Aileen and Finn appeared at last. Their faces – although now wreathed in smiles – were harried, displaying purplish-dark half-moons beneath their eyes like bruises, hollowed-out cheeks, skin whiter than white, disheveled hair. All tellingtheirstory of the storm.

“Thank ye lads. We’ll shelter in this little cove until the sea is calm again.” Aileen scanned their faces, her glance resting briefly on Maxwell. Then she swiveled on her heel and headed toward the stern.

Maxwell, leaning back on the bench, both hands still gripping his oar, breathed a sigh of relief along with the rest of them. The glance that had passed between himself and Aileen had sent a pulse of heat through his half-frozen body, causing him to hope that now the ship was anchoring, mayhap there’d be another opportunity to talk with her and find out more about the things that troubled him.

He watched her disappearing form and Finn trailing behind her. There’d be no more companionable sharing of wine, and no possibility of continuing the conversation interrupted by the storm. Besides, there were still hours of work ahead as the men labored to put to rights some of the storm-bent wreckage. Not the least of these were shattered railing where, only hours earlier, a barrel had churned through into the sea.

---