Page 60 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

“I’ve an idea.”

Her heart gave a small frog’s-jump at his words. Maxwell’s ideas were generally good.

“Ye’ve still that bundle of things ye brought wi’ ye. The blue gown ye bought in the markets?

“Aye. It’s still wi’ me. Tattered though. I’ll nae be wearing it tae dine in the great hall of yer braither’s castle.”

He indicated the birlinn with his chin. No other fighter had appeared amid the rumble of voices. “While they’re deciding who shall be next to die, make haste tae tear yer gown intae strips. Roll them and I’ll take me flint and make a torch of each.”

She nodded. “It’s a fire ye’re starting?”

“Aye.” He grinned. “What is it that sailors fear most at sea?”

“More than any storm, fire is their greatest terror.”

Without any further words, she retrieved her little bundle from beneath the seat and took out the blue kirtle. Without a moment’s regret, she began tearing it into strips of thick woven fabric which Maxwell quickly twisted into tapers.

In a matter of seconds, they had five of these. Maxwell took out his flint and struck it to the fabric. Within seconds he had expertly created sparks, and within a few more seconds the sparks had turned into flames. As the flames flared up, Aileen held the other fabric tapers to the blaze and almost at once they had five flaming torches.

Maxwell hurled them onto the birlinn. He grunted as one lodged in the sail and they watched the flames leap up. “Let’s hope that the entire sweaty boatload of these miscreants catches fire.”

A cry of “Fire” went up on the birlinn and immediately the grumbling and arguing voices died down as the men raced to stomp out the flames.

Aileen seized this moment to raise the sail again. “Quick, Maxwell. The oars.”

Soon they were flying toward the distant hills, the breeze filling the sail and both working the oars as fast as their aching, tired, bodies would permit. It was not long before the birlinn fadedinto the distance. All that remained was a grey spiral of smoke floating in the sky. It was clear there would be no further attempt at pursuit this day.

As they rounded the headland and, at last, sailed into Castle Bay, they let go the of oars and raised a cheer. Aileen steadied her still shaking hands and smiled up at Maxwell.

“We’ve made it.” Her voice was soft with the amazement and joy of it.

Maxwell grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips. He pointed to the castle built on an islet centered in the bay. “There it is, Kiessimul Castle, the seat of Clan MacNeil.”

The sun was glinting on the water as they neared the little island.

“The sun is shining. A good omen for our arrival here,” Aileen said, gazing up at the imposing building that almost seemed to be floating above the bay.

She mused approvingly on the wisdom of building a castle where any stealthy attack was all but impossible and the defenders of the castle would always have the upper hand. She pictured the archers taking aim from the battlements at anyone attempting to scale the forbidding stone walls. Not only arrows would fly but also cauldrons filled with boiling water or fat could well find their mark.

Outside the castle walls there was a large boat-landing where several birlinns of varying sizes were attached to moorings, along with smaller boats similar to the fisherman’s boat they were sailing.

“I dinnae see Everard’s birlinn riding at anchor.” Maxwell remarked as they drew into the boat-landing.

“Mayhap yer braither is searching the seas fer ye even now.”

He grunted. “Mayhap he’s travelled all the way tae Dunrobin.”

“Let us hope that he is nae at this very moment a prisoner in Sutherland’s dungeon.”

At that, Maxwell gave a sharp little laugh. “The Laird of the MacNeils is nae as foolish as meself. He’ll never go as a friend into Sutherland’s domain.”

Before they had finished tying up the boat, three unsmiling, fierce-looking, burly, guards from Kiessimul Castle appeared.

The older of the three men, a sturdy, grey-hair, took a step forward and held up his hand.

“What business have ye at Castle Kiessimul?”

Maxwell grinned, brushing the hair from his face. “Ranald Dunbar, have ye forgotten me.” He stood and faced the man.

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