The Warrior Page 23

  It all made sense now, and Tilda felt better for knowing the story. But it was time things changed. Time for everyone to stop living a lie. “Divorce that woman.” A sense of finality and hope settled through Tilda. “Or if ye dinna wish a divorce, then petition the Church to declare nullity.” Aye. That would suit Fennella better than divorce. It would tell all of society that she had failed in her role as a wife. She smiled at Agnes. “And then ye can marry my mother.”

  Agnes scooped up her hand and pulled her into a fierce hug. She took hold of Tilda by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Come, child. Let us get ye packed. Ye’ve a ship to catch.”

  “And catch it I will,” Tilda said, refusing to acknowledge the growing fear that they might already be too late.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Duncan!”

  That voice. Familiar. Safe. The strained whisper made it through the painful fog wrapped around his head. Full consciousness returned with a vengeance, bringing with it every throbbing, ripping ache his body possessed.

  Duncan became aware of sharp, brittle bits of straw or some sort of dried grass jabbing into him and stinging his flesh. He hoped like hell it was straw and not something worse. The foul stench of stale piss, human excrement, and a nauseating rancidness filled the space. He concentrated on every sound but kept his eyes closed. Closed eyes were safer. So was remaining motionless. If they thought him dead or unconscious, they were less likely to waste any more effort in beating him.

  “Duncan!”

  The whisper came closer this time, sharper and filled with desperation. Cracking an eye open, Duncan dared to scan his surroundings. Wherever this was, it was dark as a goat’s innards. He forced open both eyes and squinted to see. That was a useless chore. The abysmal hole was completely bereft of light.

  “Alasdair?” he hazarded a whisper into the stifling blackness.

  “Thank God ye live, cousin. I feared ye dead when I could no longer hear ye draw breath.”

  The crunching rustle of whatever covered the floor moved closer, stirring the rotted moldy scent thicker into the air. Duncan prayed Alasdair was the source of the sound and not some sort of vermin. He hated rats as much as he hated the English. He sat up, one hand locked to the more painful side of his skull. Lord Almighty. It would be a miracle if he didn’t lose the sight in that eye. He turned toward the rustling in the darkness. “If ye dinna mind, I shall reserve my thanking of God to when I figure out where we’ve come to.”

  “We be on board a ship,” Alasdair whispered. “I came around right before they threw us down into this pit and closed the lid atop us.”

  “How bad are ye hurt?” Duncan asked. His cousin’s voice sounded more strained than he’d ever heard it.

  “Hard to say.” More shifting skittered from across the pit, awakening the suffocating stench of the place even more. “Something wrong with my arm. Could be broke or just popped free of the joint at the shoulder.”

  Duncan scooted back, found the wall, and leaned against it. “Any idea how long we’ve been down here?”

  “Hours. Days. Who’s ta say?”

  Duncan understood. Time twisted itself in hellholes such as these. “I would have ye know how sorry I am, Alasdair. I wish to hell ye had never gotten dragged into this mess.” Regret was by far the worst of his pains. This torture weighed heavy on his soul.

  “Aye…well.” Alasdair grunted as though whatever movement he just made hurt a great deal. “It’s not as though ye’re enjoying it.”

  With a pained laugh, Duncan gave a nod even though he knew Alasdair couldn’t possibly see him. “Aye, dear cousin, I swear on my own soul, I’m no’ a damn bit happy about this current situation.”

  The stomping of boots and muffled voices broke the silence above them. Chains rattled. Wood scraped, then a blinding shaft of sunlight flooded into the hole.

  Duncan cringed away, bending his arm across his face and squinting against the intrusion. The wicked brightness threatened to split his skull in two.

  “Bring’em up. Cap’n would see’em,” ordered a rasping voice as rough as gravel beneath wagon wheels.

  “As you wish, Mr. Boydson,” answered a rich, deep voice shaded with an accent Duncan couldn’t quite place. If the man was as big and booming as his voice, this might not bode well at all. “Lower the ladder and help them climb to the deck,” ordered the thunderous voice.

  “Help them?” came a sneering reply filled with disrespect. “They be our prisoners. Bound for slaving on the plantations, they are. They dinna deserve our help.”

  A single shot of gunfire sounded, followed by a thump that could only be the sound of a body hitting the deck above. “As I said, lower the ladder and help them up.”

  “Aye, Mr. Strom. Right away.”

  Strom, the powerful voice with the accent. Boydson, the voice that sounded like gravel in a barrel. From the sound of the commands, Boydson outranked Strom, and Strom outranked everyone else.

  A rickety ladder thunked down in front of Duncan, and two men skittered into the hole as nimble as a pair of cats. They caught hold of Alasdair, jerked him to his feet, then shoved him toward the ladder.

  “This one’s winged, Mr. Strom. Broke arm, methinks,” shouted a crewman as they steadied Alasdair in his climb up the ladder.

  “And that is why we do not throw our live cargo down into the hole, but lower it with care instead,” came Mr. Strom’s calm admonishment from the deck above.

  Duncan pushed himself to his feet, one eye forced shut against the brightness from above.

  “Come on, you.” A scrawny, toad of a man, missing all his teeth and one of his eyes, took hold of Duncan’s arm and yanked him toward the ladder.

  Catching hold of the wooden rails and rungs, Duncan blinked hard against a surge of blinding dizziness. Whether the unsettled reeling came from being at sea or because they had beaten him until he blacked out, he had no clue. All he knew for certain was if they expected him to walk in a straight line, they would be sorely disappointed. And if they didn’t like that, he’d happily vomit on them.

  “On wi’ ye now!” the man ordered. “This one’s ailin’ in the head, Mr. Strom. Rob’s cudgel again,” he shouted.

  Duncan inched his way up the ladder, making a mental note to find the man named Rob and give the bastard a taste of his fist. He came to a halt at the top of the ladder, clutching tighter to the wooden rails as he found himself nose to nose with the largest man he had ever chanced to meet.

  Black eyes glittering like onyx. Skin as dark as a toasted bannock and strange marks across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose—not the tattoos of a pirate but more like star-shaped symbols burned into the man’s flesh. He wore his hair slicked back and knotted at the base of his neck. Long black braids, strung tight with colorful beads, cascaded down his back, rattling with his every move.

  The man studied Duncan, one dark brow arched as he tilted his head from side to side. He motioned for Duncan to step onto the deck, then pointed to the boards. “Walk that board.”

  Duncan blinked against the double-vision plaguing his sight, planted a foot, then released the ladder. He staggered to one side, wobbling worse than a drunkard.

  The hulking man watched him, then shook his head, setting his beads to rattling. His nostrils flared as he pulled in a deep breath and folded his massive arms across his chest. He made an imperious nod toward Duncan. “Farley. Timms. Carry this one to captain’s quarters.” He pointed a finger at Alasdair. “You follow him.” He held up a hand and stopped them as Alasdair came up even. He took hold of Alasdair’s arm and examined it. “Not broken. Pulled from the joint. Can mend it but will be painful and long to heal.”

  Farley and Timms, Duncan had nary a clue which was which, grabbed hold of him by the ankles and shoulders and hefted him up betwixt them. Duncan shut his eyes tight. The movement made his vision worse.

  After a short distance, the man carrying his feet, dropped them to the deck.

  Duncan opened his eyes
, swayed to the right, and grabbed hold of the doorpost as one of his captors hammered a fist upon the ornately carved door of the captain’s quarters.

  “Enter,” ordered a voice from within.

  The man holding tight to his left arm pushed the door open and steadied Duncan enough so he could enter the captain’s opulent quarters under his own steam. Both men stayed close as Duncan teetered his way across the room, then halted in front of a large desk that almost spanned the width of the chamber.

  Behind the massive bit of furniture sat a well-kept man with a large whiskey bottle and a dainty porcelain cup and saucer in front of him. Gray hair tied back in a severe queue, gold rings on every finger and dangling from each of his ears, the man sat on the chair as though it were a throne. Filling the cup with whiskey, he lifted it to his mouth, then paused. “This one has some fight left in him, eh, Farley?”

  The man to Duncan’s left shook his head, then hurried to yank Duncan back in place before he listed too much to the right and fell. “Nah, Cap’n. This one’s head ain’t right yet. Rob got a bit fierce with his cudgel this time. Sure to fall on his arse if we let loose of him verra long.”

  “But dinna fash yerself, Captain.” Duncan had no trouble squaring his shoulders and speaking. “Fight I will, once I get my bearings.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed, but a knowing smile curled one side of his mouth as he took a long slow sip. “Seat the gentleman, Farley.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Farley shoved a chair into the back of Duncan’s knees and pushed him down into it.

  “And this one, Mr. Strom?” The captain motioned to Alasdair where he waited just inside the door beside the foreboding dark man with the braids.

  “This one ails as well, Captain. Dislocated shoulder.” Strom ushered Alasdair forward, dragged a chair in place beside Duncan’s, and pushed him down into it. “But both appear strong. Each should bring a fair price if you wish to arrange a sale.”

  With a tight hold on the chair’s arms, Duncan sat taller. At least when he sat, his damned head stopped spinning. “What the hell is yer intent, Captain? I feel we’ve a right to know.”

  “Do ye now?” The captain rumbled out a low, ominous chuckle, drained his cup, then refilled it.

  The soft gurgling of the golden liquid into the porcelain made Duncan’s mouth water. He would nay refuse a wee sip of that whiskey if the man should be so kind as to offer it. He wet his lips and wished the captain would remember some manners.

  With a dismissive flick of a finger toward the door, the captain settled a hard look on Farley and Timms. Both men scuttled out without a word and closed the door with a soft thump behind them. The captain shifted his attention to Strom. “What say ye, Mr. Strom? Ye may speak openly now.”

  “I sense these men shall be the source of great trouble.” Strom rounded the desk, took a stance beside the captain’s chair, and settled his arms back across his chest. He fixed a stern, scowling look on Duncan. “They would bring good coin from the Sarracenia Plantation, but such a sale will be the source of nothing but trouble. The sight tells me they would cost us dear both in coin and connections.”

  The captain rose from his seat, surprising Duncan with a height that equaled the mountainous Strom. Lean and not so broad-shouldered, the captain had the wiry, weathered look of one who tarried little and sat even less. He strode across the room to a wall filled with drawers and cabinets, then returned to his desk with a cup in each hand and a jug tucked in the crook of his arm. “Since ye be Scots, I assume ye relish the uisge beatha, aye?”

  “Aye,” Duncan and Alasdair replied in unison.

  The captain laughed as he handed Strom the short brown jug. “Yer honeyed water, sir.”

  Strom accepted the jug with a regal bow, then fixed a challenging glare on Duncan and Alasdair.

  Duncan didn’t give a damn if the man drank whiskey or not. If Strom passed on drink, it just meant more for him.

  “Strom’s beliefs do not permit his consumption of alcohol,” the captain said as he filled the cups with whiskey, handed one to Duncan, then the other to Alasdair. He gave them a grin as he lifted his cup in a toast. “I possess no such beliefs. Slàinte mhath!”

  “Slàinte mhath!” Duncan responded, then downed the contents of the cup. Good whiskey. Potent and hot. Just what his empty wame needed. “And now, Captain. Yer intent?”

  The man huffed out a laugh and refilled all their cups. “Ye made a vicious enemy when ye angered the likes of Fennella Mackenzie, ye ken?”

  “Aye.” Duncan had figured that much out for himself. What he needed to know now was the fate the wicked banshee had ordered so he could plan a proper escape and seek his revenge. Woman or not, Fennella Mackenzie would rue the day she had dared challenge him.

  “By the way, I be Captain Bartholomew James, and this is the Scorpion. The Archipelago Spice Company’s finest galleon.” Captain James gave Duncan a wry grin. “Owned and operated by Fennella Mackenzie, a more shrewd, heartless, and conniving taskmaster ye shall never have the chance to meet, and a damn sight more dangerous than any man I have ever known.” He sipped at the whiskey, relishing it now with patient tastings rather than downing it in great gulps as he had before. “Yer names?”

  “Duncan MacCoinnich.” He held out his cup for another refill.

  “Alasdair Cameron—solicitor to Clan MacCoinnich.” Alasdair held out his cup as well.

  Captain James complied, topped off his own cup, then perched on the corner of his desk. “She bade me do one of two things with ye, drown ye or set ye to slaving on a spice plantation and pay the owner extra to see ye die by the lash.” He took another drink and shrugged. “She seemed to prefer the latter more than the first.” He studied Duncan. “Pray tell what ye did to incur her wrath?”

  “Married her daughter.” Duncan shifted in the chair. He’d best slow down on the whiskey. His head already pounded.

  “She hates her daughter.” Captain James’s brow furrowed, looking confused. “Almost as much as she hates men.”

  “Aye, well, she also hated when I called her a heartless cow.” Duncan cradled the cup between both hands, satisfaction surging through him at the memory. “I also had the Mackenzie gag her and put her in a corner.”

  Captain James stared at him a long moment, then erupted with a loud guffaw. “Ye had the widow-maker gagged and tied? Christ Almighty, man. I wouldha paid gold coin to see such!”

  The more Captain James talked, the more he sounded less and less like a loyal employee to the Archipelago Spice Company. Duncan’s hopes grew. “Then perhaps we might come to an agreement much more palatable than drowning or slave-trading?”

  Captain James rose from his perch, shared an unreadable look with Strom, then strode behind the desk over to the wide wall of windows above his berth. He stared out at the sea. Silent. Plotting. “I canna free ye.” He kept his gaze locked on the horizon. “The last captain and crew that crossed Fennella and went against her wishes now sleep at the bottom of the sea.” He turned and looked back at Duncan. “She also razed the village housing their families. Nothing left but ash and charred bones. No more rebellion. No survivors. No further question of loyalty.”

  “Free me and I shall see that the woman dies. Slowly.” Duncan popped his knuckles. He would gain his freedom one way or another, return to his beloved Tilda, and avenge their lost child. Fennella Mackenzie had cost him much. He owed her a great deal of misery.

  Captain James gave a cringing shrug and blew out an almost groaning sigh. “I canna risk it, man.” He turned his empty cup upside down and thunked it down on his desk. “What I can do is offer ye sanctuary here at sea. The two of ye shall now be crew to the Scorpion. I can offer ye that without fear of the witch discovering ye.” He smiled. “We do a fair amount of pirating on the side. Take heart, ye’ll grow quite rich with us.”

  “Wealth is not my concern.” Duncan forced himself up from the chair and held tight to the lip of the desk to keep from falling to the floor. “I must return to my
wife. Immediately.”

  “Dinna be a pathetic fool.” Captain James motioned to Strom. “Remove them.” He turned back to Duncan. “Trust me, ye shall forget yer wife in time. If she’s anything like her mother, ye can thank me later for saving ye from such a fate.”

  “Back in the hole or berths with the other men?” Strom sidled toward the door, his focus locked on Captain James.

  The captain pursed his lips. “Not the hole. Not these two. Methinks their wits can serve us better if we treat them as cherished pets rather than unwanted strays.” He stepped around the desk. “Lock them in Donnellay’s cabin. The man never goes there, anyway.” He attempted a polite tilt of his head toward Duncan. “Ship’s blacksmith. Feargul Donnellay. Found him in a pub in Ireland. Talented man but scared as hell when it comes to spending any amount a time in a closed room. Spent too much time in the hole after we pressed him, I guess.” He dismissed them both with a wave of his hand. “When ye come to accept yer fate and realize how fine yer life will be, Mr. Strom shall grant ye the run of the ship.” He flashed a wide grin. “After all, any man brave enough to call Fennella Mackenzie a cow deserves a bit a respect.” The grin faded, darkening to a narrow-eyed, glare of warning. “But know this, ye will never set foot on shore again without Strom here at yer side.” He returned to staring out the windows above his berth. “And ye shall never see the likes of yer Scotland again.”