Chapter One
1730, Late October
Isle of Man, Irish Sea
“The devil is afoot.”
Coire might have laughed at the irony in Mr. Shaw’s remark had he not felt the same slick unease slithering up his spine.
Minutes ago, they had weighed anchor and slipped into the night on a hushed breeze, his ship’s belly full of contraband. That they were smuggling gunpowder and firearms hadn’t mattered. Coire and his crew had done countless nefarious deeds, commissioned by landowners, powerful men, and scheming governments. ’Twas what they were good at, a prosperous pirate’s life. But tonight, something was…different. Before the sun tucked under the blueing horizon as the men loaded the last of the hogsheads and smaller barrels, he had noticed the change in the wind. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but the foreboding was there, clinging like thick soot. Even now, the dark waves glittering from the light of the full moon were subdued despite the swift currents. Hardly a sound could be heard save the creak of Kelpie’s hull, a twist in her braces, or the whisper of her shrouds. Or so it seemed.
“Best we not get in his way, then, eh, Mr. Shaw? He might find us worthy adversaries to engage.”
The haggard old sea dog’s bushy, graying brows rose as he slowly nodded in amused agreement. “That he may, capt’n. And a grand affair we’d give ’im.” Mr. Shaw cast one last weathered eye out to the darkness before leaving Coire at the railing. He recognized the look in his first mate’s gaze. ’Twas one of longing for warmer climates and friendlier ports. Or maybe Coire directed his own wish upon his interpretation. He wanted to return to the West Indies, resume his privateering ways. And he vowed he would do so…soon.
An unseasonal, low, wispy fog clung to the coastline. Up ahead, Coire could just make out the obscure outline of Peel Castle, the garrisoned administrative center, church, and prison of the west side of the island. Torchlight dotting the castle provided a guide to the open sea and the North Channel beyond.
It had been brazen coming to Man under the nose of the British for more gunpowder to add to their haul. Brazen, but necessary. He and his men would be paid a hefty sum to get the arms and ammunition to Scarba and into the hands of Jacobite rebels. And they had to do so ahead of planned attacks on key locations. Pockets heavy and lined with gold while aiding in the war against the British succession suited Coire just fine. Though he no longer claimed family there, or allegiance for that matter, Scotland was the home of his blood. She and her people deserved better than to be subjected to the whims of an English parliament and her abusive militias. But ’twasn’t his fight.
Kelpie passed the tidal island which Peel Castle perched upon. More torchlight winked along the battlements. Odd so many lights would be burning at this late hour. A dark silhouette bobbed in the water between the ship and the shore. Was that…a skiff? As soon as he questioned his eyes, his topman straddling a cross tree in the mast above him confirmed it.
“Boat, two points starboard bow,” the topman called down.
As the skiff neared, Coire grasped the rail and squinted hard, willing the thin gossamer veil of fog away. What kind of fool would be out in a tiny boat in the middle of the night?
Aw, hell. His imagination must have been running rampant. Was that a…? Could it be?
Mr. Shaw was once again by his side, along with Jonesy, Redd, and a few other crewmen, all wearing confused expressions.
“Do me deadlights deceive me? Is that a…woman?”
“’Twould appear so, Mr. Shaw.” Indeed, by the figure’s slight frame and long tendrils of hair lifting on the tender breeze, ’twas a female manning the oars.
That sinister unease lingering on the fringes of his conscious all evening suddenly pressed down upon him. Whatever this woman was about, whatever reason for her to be out in a rowboat in the middle of the night, it couldn’t be good.
The lass waved valiantly between pulls of the oars while trying to intercept the ship. Coire ordered the sails reefed before they rammed into her and a line thrown. ’Twasn’t long before the girl had a grip on the rope.
“Hello, there.” The woman’s words rushed out in her shortness of breath, yet she smiled. “A fine evening to ya. Permission to come aboard?”
“What are ye doing out here?” In no way was Coire going to blindly invite someone on board whilst he carried sensitive goods, especially a crazy lass paddling out to sea at midnight.
“Ah, well, ’tis a bit embarrassing, see. I was to rendezvous with a, um, friend on the bank.” She swiped her shirtsleeve across her brow. Though the night air was cool, she would be sweaty from the exertion. “I fell asleep waiting and the tide must have come in.”
A tryst, eh? She’d willingly admit to it? Coire wasna so quick to believe her story.
“Why is it then, lass, ye are rowing away from the shore instead of to it?”
“Please, sir. ’Tis a long way back and my arms are tired.” She glanced back toward the craggy shoreline and castle losing its shape in the thickening fog.
“Nay, ’tisn’t too far” he assured her. “I’m certain ye can make it.”
“Capt’n.” Jonesy frowned, worry pinching his brow. “Aren’t we gonna rescue the lady?”
“Rescue? The lady is hardly in distress.” Not when he had caught a glimpse of two pistols shoved beneath her waistband. In fact, he was beginning to believe she intentionally set out to board his ship.
“I winna make it,” she called up.
“This is not a vessel ye wish to board, lass. That be a veritable truth. I advise ye to return from which ye came before yer journey back becomes overly taxing.”
Mr. Shaw’s jaws flapped, wrestling with the moral obligation of plucking the lass from the water and the problem she would pose if they did. “This ain’t right.”
“On many levels, I’m afraid,” Coire agreed. “We canna fish her out and go back to the wharf. ’Tis too dangerous and we must stay on schedule. We canna put the mission at risk.”
“Please, captain—” She paused. “Ye are the captain, aye?”
He nodded once. “I am.”
The woman’s grin was gone, replaced by a bothered moue. She flung another glance to the island. “There are sharks in these waters.”
“And ye are in a boat,” Coire pointed out.
“What if I sink?”
“Ye’ve a sturdy craft.” Persistent little fluff. “Let go of the rope or I shall cut it.” Coire drew his dirk and gripped the cord.
“But my boat is sinking.”
“I dinna—”
She tugged out a pistol, pointed it at the hull, and fired a shot. Bits of timber exploded. A puff of smoke and the echo of the blast snagged upon the breeze. Water flooded through the resulting hole.
“Shite! Are ya daft?” She was mad! Hell bent and mad!
“My boat is sinking.” Her calmness was unsettling as she tossed the spent pistol to the floorboards.
The lass had an unflinching composure given the speed her vessel took on water. And that she, herself, went to such lengths to board his ship was enough to set warning bells clanging loud between his ears.
“Drop a ladder!” Coire ordered.
He damned near growled at the sight of the girl standing ankle deep in the faltering skiff patiently waiting for the rope ladder. Her dangerous stunt reinforced why Coire did not trust women. They twisted and crooked circumstances to fit their fancy. Manipulating anyone to get what they wanted, even young impressionable men. Most especially young impressionable men.
Sour bile stirred in his gut as an image of his sister, Cait, flashed in his mind. Her betrayal was a wound that would not heal. Though he hated her, wholly and truly, he had to give Cait credit where credit was due. Had it not been for her, he wouldna have been ejected from his home in Malig and stolen away to a merry life at sea.
Coire grasped the lass under the arm and helped her climb over the gunwale. Such a short, delicate thing. As soon as she found her footing, he relieved her of her remaining weapon. “All right, lass. Ye’ve managed to get on my ship. What is this about? Who are ye?”
She smoothed out her skirts, deftly scanned the faces that had gathered at the spectacle, and smiled. Holy hell, what a smile. Now that he could see her more clearly, he was struck by her beauty. Her long, dark tresses were a mess, though his fingers twitched to check if the curls were as soft to touch as they appeared. Her button-like nose curved up at the tip and her cheeks were high-boned. He couldn’t quite tell what color her eyes were in the dim light, but they were animated and bright. And her body, those curves…
Fire and brimstone! What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t be admiring her looks. The woman damn near invaded his ship.
“Thank ye for not letting me drown.” Her expression of innocence grated upon him.
“Somehow, I doubt the sea would have ya,” Coire groused, stuffing her pistol into his waistband at his back.
Laughter bubbled from her in a lively melody. “Ye might be right.” She dipped at the knee in something of a ridiculously quick curtsey. “Treva Shawna MacDougall.” She paused, expecting his reciprocal introduction.
“Coire Fletcher, Captain of the Kelpie.” If she wanted more, she’d be disappointed. As it was, he hardly managed to keep his anger at what she’d done corked. “I’d welcome ye aboard but I’m afraid I’m in no mood to be hospitable. And we will not be returning to Man to deliver ye to yer companion.”
“I have inconvenienced ye enough.” She tilted her head down as if she were a chastised child. The lass used the gesture to again scan her surroundings, as if gauging her next move should someone even flinch her way. “Drop me off at yer next port of call. I shall find my way from there.”
“Without knowing where that may be?” Or without an escort? What was this lass about?
“As ye’ve said, I’ve not much choice in the matter.”
She stepped aside, deferring to the manner and stance of a lady that she’d been lacking all along, as he ordered his men to open the sheets and get back to their stations. They’d been gawking. He didna blame them. ’Twasn’t often a bonny lass foxed her way onto their ship in the middle of the night. Not that it hadn’t happened before. But this was different. No one had ever done something so asinine as to blow a hole into their boat just to get on board a ship full of unsavory men.
Still, he was sure to hear from a few of the more superstitious lads about how unlucky ’twas to have a woman on board. Mr. Shaw was one of them. He was slow to return back to work as he circled around her. The lass, with her hands clasped in front of her, simply smiled at the old tar, unfazed by his best evil eye.
“Captain Fletcher.” She leaned in, almost conspiratorially, when he returned to her side. “May I ask ye for a private audience? I should like to explain my,” she spun her hand upon her wrist as if to curtail her actions, “reckless behavior.”
“Yer reckless behavior extends to yer request, Miss MacDougall. To be alone in the company of a stranger, with no reference to his character, and trust me, my character is to be questioned, is beyond foolhardy.”
Her head bobbed in agreement. “Perhaps. But considering ye did just rescue me, I’m thinking ye might be honorable enough.”
From the way she kept eying the dwindling shoreline, not as if reconsidering what she had done, but rather as if she were relieved to be putting distance behind her, he suspected he had saved her from more than sharks and a watery grave. And that made him curious. “As honorable as a privateer might be.”
Her gaze flipped back. He may have startled the lass, but her eyes lacked any fear. And that might have been a trace of a smirk cross her lips. Maybe she really was daft.
“Will I be gaining yer ear, captain?”
“Come.” He led her across the deck to the ladder leading down to his cabin where he snagged a lantern at the hatch and lit it. “Stick close. Ye dinna want one of the men to nab ya.” None would, of course. The punishment for violating the Articles was severe. They may all be the scourge of the sea, but the men on his crew valued their brotherhood over impulsive carnal urges.
“Oh, thank ye for the warning.” Instead of keeping on his heel, she fell back a step. The lass was a contrast to everything a woman in her position should be. She didna tremble from fear nor show any sign of regret for her rash behavior. Instead, she seemed to purposely spurn his directive. Coire loathed defiance. Had no room for it. Had killed because of it. It rankled him even more when the fairer sex displayed any amount of it. He’d not allow another woman the opportunity to disrespect him. But with this lass, he wondered how much of it was intentional.
Coire opened the door to his quarters and allowed her to precede him. Once inside, he hung the lantern on a hook overhead. “Have a seat, Miss MacDougall.” He motioned to a chair at the table that doubled as his desk nailed to the floorboards in the middle of the room. She tucked the skirt of her drab brown dress, the hem wet and tattered, beneath her and promptly sat. He’d consider that a win.
He had a feeling in his gut this night was about to get worse. He amended that. It most certainly would get worse, now that he had gotten a good look at her. In the dancing firelight, he could make out the smattering of freckles sprinkled over her nose. Her eyes, which followed his every movement, were the lightest of green—the color of feathery fern fronds on a moist forest floor. Mesmerizing…
Coire gave her his back, determined not to forfeit good judgment for a pretty pullet. A stout swig of whiskey would do. He retrieved two cups from their secured spot on a shelf. “I’ve a pitcher of fresh water, if ye’d care—”
“Whiskey, if ye please.” His surprise must have shown. She added, “I’m a bit chilled from getting wet.”
He filled her cup halfway, handed it to her, and filled his own tankard to the brim. The lass raised her mug to him, smiling her thanks, and threw back the entire contents in one swallow with nary a winch from the hard liquor. “Ah, I needed that. My thanks, sir. Ye’ve been my salvation twice this night.”
The women Coire knew who could drink whiskey like that were cut from the same hard-bitten cloth of the wretched dregs of society, often thieves and whores. He didna get that undercurrent from her, but the girl called for closer scrutiny. “Salvation. Quite a choice in language. One that belies ye didna just happen upon misfortune, finding yerself carried out by the tide. Ye are running. Why? And dinna lie. I’ll excuse no more of them.”
She sighed, for his benefit, surely. Any other typical captain might have believed her original story. But Coire thrived amongst liars, rooks, and politicians. Taking strangers at their words was an occupational hazard.
“Aye, ye are right. I’ve not been forthright. I am running.” The lass took a deep breath, her gaze landing upon her cup. “From an abusive man.” She lifted up her sleeves to reveal her arms. Bruises the size of fingerprints mottled her creamy skin.
“Yer husband did this to you?” He’d love to leave a few bruises of his own on whoever had harmed her. Rough-handling of someone so small was inexcusable.
“I’m not married.” Her lips flattened, as if the very thought was unappealing. “Tonight, I feared for my life and took a chance.”
“A hell of a chance.”
She glanced up from her cup but returned her attention to it, gliding her finger along its rim. “He came to my…room. Had been drinking heavily. An opportunity presented itself and I fled.”
Coire reached around to the small of his back for her pistol and placed it between them on the table. “This his?”
“Nay. ’Tis mine now.”
He nearly chuckled at that shameless answer. “Did ye kill him?”
Slowly, she met his gaze. “Do I look like a murderer?”
“Looks can be deceiving, lass. Answer the question.” ’Twould be important to know this wee detail. He wasna in the business of transporting fugitives. Not without a commission and a promise of considerable bounty.
She lifted a shoulder. “I didna stick around to see.”
The lass was wily. Alluring and wily. It had been his experience to never trust an alluring and wily woman. Something still smelled wrong. “Forgive me, lass, but yer logic is flawed. Ye’ve gone from the frying-pan to the fire. Casting yer lot with a ship full of sailormen is unwise. Fatal.” He wasna going to soften his words to save her sensibilities. Not when she clearly had none. “What is to stop me from forcing myself upon ye, discarding you to the men once I’ve had my fill, then throwing yer broken body overboard?”
She leaned over her arms resting upon the table, lifted her chin, and pinned him to his seat with an undaunted stare. “I’d kill myself, or you, before I’d let that happen.”
The girl snatched at the pistol between them so quickly he almost didna catch her by the wrist in time. But not enough time that the barrel wasna pointed directly at his chest. They stared at one another for two heartbeats until she haughtily pursed her lips and let the gun slip from her grasp.
Coire fought back a smirk. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the only woman he ever trusted. Miss Treva Shawna MacDougall had some of the same bold fire as Captain Joelle Quint. That hellcat was admired by pirates the world over for her courage, tenacity, and skill. Coire had the honor to serve under her flag. She would have given her life for any member her crew, and he’d have done the same for her. But the woman sitting across from him was no red-headed pirate captain. She was a tiny girl with big ballocks.
Mixed emotions warred within him. He fumed at her trickery, had no use for the conniving woman, and yet was overwhelmingly curious about her, admiring her diligence. Didna help that she was oh-so easy on the eyes. But he’d tolerate no vague threat. “That’s a dangerous line you tread, lass.”
She straightened back into her chair and he let her wrist glide from his grip. “I beg to differ. Had I stayed, I would be dead by morn. He swore to it. I had no other choice but to embrace whatever opportunity was presented. I’d like to think I traded up. Being a pirate—”
“Privateer.”
“One in the same, captain. I’m sure ye understand the worth in seizing opportunity.”
He conceded with the dip of his head. There really wasna much difference in the two. Legal document or no, the practice of pillaging was the same. But her actions still didna make sense. Why take a rowboat to sea? Why not go into hiding and find a safer passage off the island? It didna add up. She wasna telling him the whole truth, if any.
She lifted her cup. “May I have another?”
“Opportunity is a part of our lifeblood,” he said, filling her cup with more whiskey than he had given her before. “And if ye understand my profession so well, why are you not afraid?”
“Afraid of pirates? I’d be foolish to not be.”
He cocked an eyebrow at that. “And yet…?”
“Remember, I’m taking chances where I had none. Ye look nothing like the pirates I’ve run into—vile, unkempt, foul-smelling, savage, arrogant…”
“Ye’ve met many pirates?”
“I’ve had the occasion.” There it was again. A ghosted smirk, just as her lips touched the rim of her cup. He was sure of it this time. But his interest in her fleeting reaction floated to the back of his mind as he focused on those rosy lips—plump, ripe, distracting…
“I’m desperate to get home, Captain Fletcher.”
Ah, something more of her to piece together. “Where is home?”
“Oban.”
Oban? She was a part of the MacDougall clan in Oban? Suddenly, like it or not—and he did not—he had a vested interest in making sure this lass got home. His livelihood might depend on it. He’d turn her over to Graer MacDougall, the man who had commissioned Coire and the Kelpie to run arms up and down the Scottish and British coasts, paying them handsomely.
“We’re not headed to Oban but ye’ll be close. Our business takes us to Scarba.”
“Scarba?” The color from her face drained. ’Twas the first real response of fear out of her. Interesting. “Will ye not dock elsewhere?”
“Afraid not, lass. I’ve a delivery to make.” And under a time constraint to get his haul to Graer as soon as possible. “Besides, I should think it good fortune for ye to be going to a port on MacDougall lands.” So why did she look terrified at the notion?
“Aye.” The word was as drawn out as her distant gaze. She suddenly snapped back to and bobbed her head. “I should be able to find passage easily enough to Oban.” Her confidence lacked in her voice. She fiddled with her cup before taking another long quaff. How much of the whiskey could she handle? He made note to keep a watchful eye on her and keep the chamber pot handy lest she become sick.
“Which brings me to another matter. Nothing is free, Miss MacDougall. What will be my payment for saving yer pretty little arse and taking ye with me?” Coire should be ashamed of himself for his inappropriate language and demanding recompense from a lady in need. But he still seethed at the manner in which she forced her way onto his ship and, though she didna know it, put him in the loathsome position of acting as her guardian.
“’Twould be terribly impudent of me not to pay ye for yer inconvenience and hospitality.” She reached into her skirts and withdrew a small pouch. The coins jangled together as she tossed them onto the table in front of him. “I think ye will find it more than enough.”
Coire peered inside the cloth purse. Aye, ’twas enough to sail to the Northern Isles. She’d been prepared. “Seems ye are self-assured that I would accept this alone.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “Would it be too much to ask to show me yer honor and respect mine?”
He was no man ruled by his cock or primal need to assert authority over the fairer kind, though he would be quick to put a woman in her place should she ever try to machinate him.
“I dinna take up much room,” she added from under coy lashes.
That she didna, and yet she crowded his space with her presence.
Dammit, wasna that what she was doing now? Machinating, beguiling, and shaping him to her benefit? Nay, not benefit. Survival. She may be mad, but she wasna so foolish to not be mapping out her survival.
“The journey will last a day’s sail. During that time ye will stay below deck, out of the way.”
“Oh, thank ye, Captain Fletcher.” Her smile, the brightness was blinding. He caught himself staring at her mouth again and something below his belt twitched. Look away.
He stood, swiping the pistol off the table as he passed by, stuffing at his back once again. “Dinnae thank me yet. Ye’ll not be comfortable.”
“I’m quite used to poor living conditions, captain.”
Coire paused at her odd statement before opening a trunk against the wall. “I’ve no available cabin to accommodate ye. All are being used for storage.” He rummaged through the storage box until he found what he was looking for. “’Twould do no one good to have ye roaming around the crew’s sleeping quarters.”
“A place on the floor amid barrels will do. I dinna want to be an inconvenience.”
Graer would have Coire’s ballocks for wedging one of his clan’s women among the contraband. But the man wouldna be able to fault him for what he was about to do. “Too late for that, lass.” The metal of the shackles clanged as he pulled them from the trunk and turned on his heel. “I’m quite beyond inconvenienced.”
She scrambled from her chair and backed away. Alarm slackened her jaw as she put the table between them, her gaze bouncing from the manacles to his face and back.
“I’ll need to protect my investments if I’m to share my cabin with ye.”
“I just want to get home, Captain Fletcher. There’s no need for such extremes.” Her hackles were up, ready to evade any sudden movement from him. She circled around the table as he advanced. Didna she know ’twas a base instinct for a predator to give chase?
“This coming from a woman who’d sink her boat to board my ship.”
Around she went, around he followed. She switched directions, and he chuckled inwardly. A table wouldna keep him from her. Damn how he loved a good hunt.
“I’m a threat to ye, am I, captain?” No smile upon her lips but he did spot a wicked gleam in her eye. And that was a provocation he could not refuse.
In a flash, he was across the table, snaring her arm, and snapping the manacle upon her wrist. “This is where ye lose yer mettle, lass.”
She screeched and spat a string of curses, wrestling uselessly to loosen his grasp.
“Stop fightin’ me.” The girl caught him in the jaw with her free fist. He winced from the smarting and grunted against the new pain radiating from where she kicked him in the shin.
“Let me go!”
He obliged by tossing her upon his bunk. No sooner had she bounced on the meager mattress he had the other end of her chains secured to a bolt in the bulkhead.
A tangle of her messy hair stuck to her lips whipped in and out of her mouth as she huffed angrily for breath, breasts heaving. Her stare could melt steel. Naturally, she yanked on the shackles testing its strength. The sight she made sprawled and writhing across his bed, her skirts climbing up her thighs, and wearing an indignant glower, was…arousing.
Shite. He turned away and set about locking his trunks. “This is for yer own good, woman.”
“Or is it for yers?” she spat.
Coire retrieved the chamber pot, set it beside the bed, and squatted just inches from her exposed legs. He locked gazes with her. “Make no mistake, Miss Treva MacDougall. ’Twas yer choice to play a game of chance with a dangerous man.” He plucked the fabric of her skirt off her thigh, fingering the wool. Close to her core, he was lured by her heat. Wanted to press his fingertips into her creamy skin. Her pupils crowded out the green of her eyes. Again, not with fear. Something else entirely. Rebellion. That made her all the more fetching. Ah, but now was not the time to challenge that rebellion. And she was not the woman. “My generosity ends here.” He pulled her skirt down over her knees.
The severe lines of her face relaxed with bewilderment. Aye, a lesser man would have taken advantage of her position. Though with the lewd images of what he’d find under her dress buzzing in his mind, he was only better by a degree.
“I only ask for safe passage,” she said.
“Which I will give ye…on my terms.”
She yanked at her restraints. “This isna necessary.”
“I say it is.”
“Dinna underestimate me, Captain Fletcher.” There was that wild look in her eye again. “Ye put me in a beastly situation. Desperate women are capable of the unthinkable.”
This he knew to be true.
“Then I suggest ye dinna do anything that will aggravate yer position further.”
Coire shot up from the floor and left the cabin for much needed fresh air, locking the door behind him.
Mr. Shaw was right. The devil was afoot. Dressed in skirts and disguised as a beauty.