Devil's Own

“Are you?” He put his arm around her and nestled her close, startling her as he stole a deep kiss. With it came a rush of sensation—his morning beard scraping against her skin, the familiar stab of longing in her belly—her body’s response to him immediate.



He finally pulled from her, leaving her breathless. He wiped the damp from her bottom lip with a sensual sweep of his thumb. “Pirate wench, is it? Aye, I think you speak truly.”



She beamed, pleased beyond reason.



He opened a hatch to retrieve a woolen blanket then led her to the rear of the ship. “If you’re a pirate wench, that would make me a pirate. And you know what pirates are known for.”



She watched as he made a cozy nest of the stern. “Ravaging?”



“Aye, ravaging, ravishment. All those.” He lay down, patting the space beside him, beckoning.



She joined him on the blanket. “How very treacherous it all sounds.”



“A menace, I am. Particularly to fair maidens.” He cupped her head, leaning them back to watch as night turned to day. “So, beware. You’ve requested a sunrise, but I cannot guarantee your subsequent safety.”



With a hand on his chest and a leg twined between his, she cuddled close. “I wish we could just stay here, like this.”



He sighed, stroking her hair. “Soon, Beth.”



They lay in silence for a time, watching as the sky faded from slate to indigo, to blue, and the rising sun cast strangely vivid slashes of light on soft rolling clouds overhead.



He took her hand in his, idly threading their fingers. “It’s like we’re floating away.”



There was such romance in his voice, she fancied her chest might expand with her light heart, and it made her playful. “And you call me the daftie?”



Barking out a laugh, he grabbed her and pulled her roughly atop him. “Not a daftie. ’Tis merely the musings of a pirate poet.” He settled her more snugly over him, and she felt his hardness through her skirts. Clamping her in place with a firm hand on her buttocks, he warned, “You best not tease, luvvie. I’ll make you walk the plank, or worse.”



“Worse?” She ducked down to nip at his ear. She wriggled her hips suggestively, able to think of a thousand sweet tortures she’d happily suffer at his hands. “What worse could there be than walking the plank?”



He became suddenly serious. “You could marry me. Be my pirate bride in truth. Forever.”



She raised her brows. “Have we not agreed to that already?”



“So we did. But I have a plan. I’ll marry you,” he said earnestly, “and I’ll run your farm for you. With you.”



“You’d be a sheep farmer?” Her face fell, thinking of her tiresome existence. “I can’t ask you to choose such a life. You’ve got your boat. You could have such grand adventures.”



“Adventure?” He gave a disdainful roll of his eyes. “Don’t you understand? I’ve had my fill of adventure for a lifetime. We can still do this”—he gestured around them—“but we’ll sail after the workday is done. We can watch the sun set. We’ll watch every sunrise, if that’s your fancy. I’ll teach our son to sail. Daughters too,” he added, smile flashing. “But you and I, we’ll manage the farm together. It’s been doing better since I began to help, isn’t it?”



“Better than ever,” she admitted.



“I want roots, Beth. I’ve been long years without them, and I’m finding I like the feel of being on Scottish soil again. I can contribute something of good. I can build something, we can build something, together. We’ll make enough, and then set your father up someplace comfortable. In his own cottage, or even in Aberdeen town, if that’s what he wishes. He doesn’t need coin from some old merchant when you and I will get by just fine.”



She stared at him in dazed silence. He didn’t want to sail off into the sunset, abandoning her—and her many responsibilities—for grand adventures. He’d leave all that behind, to live with her, tending sheep on a modest slice of land.



“Well?” he asked, sounding uncertain. “What do you think?”



In her eyes, he’d been a hero, but now he was her hero. She traced a light finger along his brow, saying simply, “I think it’s a grand plan.”



He laughed, tangling fingers in her hair, pulling her down for a joyful kiss.



They parted, and her thoughts began to race. Her father would be difficult to convince. With next to no worldly goods to call his own, Aidan brought nothing to this union. But if they tread carefully, she knew she’d find a way.



“You and I will need to part,” she told him, her mind working. “But just long enough for me to talk sense to my father. When we dock today, can it be near Dunnottar? If I walk home from there and am seen, I can devise some believable subterfuge as to how I’d been away visiting Anya.”



“Subterfuge.” A dark shadow flickered on his face. “You mean you’ll lie. I hate making you lie.”



She propped onto an elbow, speaking in earnest. “You’ll make an honest woman of me yet, Aidan MacAlpin. All we need to do is persuade my father.”



They locked eyes. She watched as he grew convinced, his gaze transforming from somber to mischievous.



He hiked her skirts up. “That can’t be all we need to do …”



She knelt over him. The air on her legs was brisk, but the feel of the sun warming her naked skin was a revelation. Dangerous and delicious, just like Aidan. And just as with him, there was nothing that felt righter in the world.



Chapter 32



It’d taken Elspeth the entire sail back to convince Aidan to let her walk home on her own. In the end, it was his boat that decided it. The coast off Dunnottar Rock offered good mooring for the likes of Cormac’s fishing boat, but the Journeyman was a big enough sloop to require docking in Aberdeen harbor.



She happily meandered along the path, heading home, her mind skipping hither and yon, thinking about Aidan, replaying their time together, remembering all he’d done and said. Might they truly have a son or daughter someday for him to sail with, for her to read to? It was enough to make her chest expand so that she thought she might float up to the sky with her happiness.



A plume of smoke drifted faintly on the horizon, and her mind began to wander further afield, wondering who was burning what and why. But the smoke grew darker the closer she got to her cottage, its smell more acrid. Her heart began to hammer in her chest.



As she crested the hill, her world stopped, and she was plunged into a nightmare. Their cottage was a blackened ruin. “Da! Oh God, Da!” Elspeth galloped down the hill, shrieking for her father, trying in vain to scream herself awake. But it was no dream.



She got as close as she could to the cottage before the scorched earth became too unbearably hot through the leather of her shoes, and peered in, making sense through the smoke and shadows. Despite the heat, her skin prickled, cold and clammy. There was not much inside but ashes and charred stone. A few blackened pages from her books were littered across the floor. A cast-iron pot sat on the hearth, looking eerily untouched by the devastation.



Other than that, there was nothing. She had nothing.



The stench, the sight, she took it all in, but her brain couldn’t comprehend. Shock made her gasp for air, but she sucked in too much smoke and coughs racked her. Backing away, she scrubbed the tears from her face, breathing into the crook of her elbow.



While she was gone, a fire had raged. While she’d floated away with Aidan, her world had burned. She’d been thinking only of herself while flames blazed with a life of their own, razing everything then petering out, leaving naught but singed stone ringed by a halo of blackened earth.



If she’d been paying mind to her family, to their needs, if she’d only been home, this wouldn’t have happened.



But what of her father? Had he been here? “Da!” she screamed again, hoping—praying—he was sleeping off the night somewhere in an Aberdeen tavern.



Fresh dread prickled through her, choking her with nausea, as she realized who had been home. Home, and quite likely helpless. Achilles.



“No, God,” she cried, wondering how she could have forgotten her puppy. She bolted from the cottage, scanning all around her. “Achilles!” she called, racing across the glen, shouting over and over for her dog, but she was greeted only by silence.



The silence grew louder. It was unsettling and surreal, and only then did it strike her that the farm had never been silent. Always there’d been sound, always the incessant bleating of sheep that’d driven her mad. But now there was nothing.



Girding her courage, she made her way to the paddock.



A gruesome scene slowly came into focus. She saw the sheep, and her gorge rose. They lay slaughtered, littering their pen. Someone had tried to burn them alive. But wool didn’t burn, and their bodies stank of charred fleece and butchered flesh.



She clapped a hand to her mouth, swallowing convulsively, refusing to be sick. She’d bear this. She’d been the cause of it, and she’d bear it.



This was no accident. Somebody had done this, somebody had intentionally destroyed their farm.



Forcing herself to cling to reason, she took in the scene, trying to make sense of it. The scorch marks ended several feet from the cottage, then began again near the paddock. And though nothing had burned in the field, the fence had been toppled in places.



Who would do such a thing? Who had they angered? Who did they even know outside their small community?



Fraser. Her blood froze in her veins. The answer was Fraser.



It was her fault. She’d enraged the old merchant, and he’d retaliated by destroying her home.



“You hussy,” a familiar voice shouted.



She turned to see her father stumbling toward her. Relief surged through her, seeing him alive. And then dread mingled with her relief, seeing the fury in his eyes.



He stood before her, swaying, and the sour smell of ale amid the acrid cinders sickened her. The morning light was unforgiving, and he looked like he’d aged twenty years in one night.