Chapter Two
Treva tried the restraints one more time, if nothing more than out of stubbornness. She had small hands, but the metal cuff was too tight to squeeze through. She harrumphed and fell back against the mattress.
This wasna how it was supposed to happen. William had said this ship was going to Oban. He had also said he didna know the captain personally but knew he was friendly to the cause and had suspected the ship was laden with arms meant for the rebels. She didna have time to question him as he handed her weapons and the gold coins for passage and helped her into the dinghy. After he shoved her off from the rocky shore beneath Peel Castle, he disappeared back to his post inside the prison and she had been certain luck was finally on her side. Now, she had her doubts. Trading one set of shackles for another.
She reminded herself it could be worse. She could still be sitting in her cell praying in her last hours as she awaited the noose. ’Twas fortunate William was able to help her escape.
Treva squeezed her eyes shut. She was exhausted, drained of mind and body. Weary of being alone with her dark thoughts and fatigued from running through corridors, climbing down the rocky coastline, and rowing out to a moving ship. The whiskey gave her a much needed zip of energy, but now it encouraged the lull of sleep. Not yet. She had to determine her next move…now and when they arrived at Scarba.
She groaned and threw her free arm over her eyes. Treva never wanted to step foot on that island ever again. Monsters lurked there. Vicious monsters. A shiver involuntarily skittered over her body. She winna be able to get off Scarba fast enough. To that, how would she? She gave Captain Fletcher all her coins, expecting that he sailed for Oban. Maybe she could convince the captain to take her the rest of the way. ’Twas just a handful of hours away. And she had paid him handsomely.
Handsome. That accurately described the captain. Something else she hadn’t expected. He stood a good foot and a half, maybe more, above her. All muscle and sinew strained against his clothing. Dark blonde, tousled hair skirted his broad shoulders. Days-old stubble covered his strong jaw and bracketed his permanent scowl, only adding to his appeal. More than once Treva nearly buckled under the intensity of his blue-eyed stare.
But none of that mattered, or it shouldn’t. What did matter was getting to Oban as soon as possible to warn Duncan with the information she gathered before she was imprisoned. The rebels’ well-crafted plots had been exposed. Her cousin couldna march on Dunstaffnage Castle nor Ranald MacEwen on Dumbarton castle near Glasgow. ’Twould be a slaughter. Not just on the battlefield. The royalists would hunt the clan, picking off everyone associated with the conspirators. Men, women, and children, alike, would suffer the consequence. They had to abort the mission. She just had to get to Duncan in time.
Treva sat up into a more comfortable position to get the blood flowing through her shackled arm that had been crooked in an awkward position. Captain Fletcher may be refreshing to the eye, but he was still a pirate. She never met a pirate that wasna dangerous, even to kith and kin. Fortunately, she still had her sgian dubh strapped to her thigh. Lord above, the captain had been close to discovering the hidden dagger beneath her skirts. She had held her breath praying he didna find it. And yet, the heated look that had flared in his eyes as his fingers skimmed her skin above her knee had stalled her heart straightaway. Thankfully, the captain hadn’t lifted her skirt higher and the dagger remained a secret.
She memorized the layout of his cabin, noting any potential threat or aid to her. The quarters were surprisingly neat and modest. All the navigational equipment was secured on the shelves. No personal items—clothing, shaving blades, books—were left lying around and were probably stored in the several trunks lining the bulkheads. There was one exception. A wash basin and a chip of soap sat atop a barrel adjacent to the bunk.
She eyed the soap, deciding it could be used to lubricate her wrist. She could be free from her manacle in a matter of minutes. Without little thought of what the captain would think or do, she reached out for the soap. She’d not be kept a prisoner any longer, not when she legitimately paid for passage. As for his “investments”, he needn’t worry. If his cargo was indeed contraband, it was in both of their best interests to protect it. And that muck about her safety? Well, she’d lasted this long on her own, ’twould be up to her how she stayed out of harm’s way.
She reached for the chip perched on the barrel, stretching as far as she could go until the metal of the shackle bit deep into her wrist. ’Twas no use. ’Twas too far for the tips of her fingers. Switching positions, she tried again but with her foot to knock it off the barrel and, counting on more luck, within reach. Every muscle lengthened, strained, her shoe skimming the edge of barrel. Twisting slightly on her hip for height, she tried again, ignoring the shackle slicing into her flesh. Her toe brushed the soap, scooting it to a favorable angle. Almost…got…it…
The lock clanked and the cabin’s door flung open.
Captain Fletcher stalled mid-stride, his hand extended toward the whiskey bottle on the table. His gaze traveled the length of her. From fingertip to toe, she was frozen in place.
Caught.
The soap plopped to the floor.
“What the devil?” He eyed the soap. His scowl shifted, thawed, veered into something bawdy. “Since ye wouldna be foolish enough to try an escape, you must want to bathe. But lass, ye wouldna be able to carry out the task without help.” He picked up the chip of soap and dipped it into the water basin. “I hope ye are not too bashful.”
Treva could have dissolved into a puddle from the wicked grin quirking his lips. She would bet the whole of Scotland many sins were carried out for just a glimpse of that grin. And why not? The captivating man likely left swooning maidens in his wake everywhere he went. But she could ill afford to commit anymore sins. “Oh, no. That winna be necessary.”
The captain lathered up a rag. “’Twould be no trouble.”
“Just the same, I’ve no need for a bath.” At least she hoped she didna. He took one step toward her with the soapy rag and she panicked. “I was indeed foolishly trying to escape!” There. She said it.
He chuckled and dropped the rag in the bowl. “To what end, lass? Ye’ve nowhere to go but trouble.”
What could she say? ’Twas true. “I dinna like being helpless, captain.”
“No one does.”
“Sounds as if ye’ve been in a similar predicament.”
The uptick of his tawny eyebrow gave him away. “A time or two.”
“Then ye understand my wish to free myself.”
“Aye.” His countenance darkened. “But I dinna brook defiance.”
Treva knew better than to challenge him on that account. ’Twas her nature to oppose authority. But this was not the time. She switched directions to counter his sudden flinty mood. “The shackle is hurting me.”
Granted, her wrist might not be so red and raw had she not been twisting and pulling against the unyielding metal. He was smart, would know that, too. But for a brief moment, his hard edges relented and she thought she won the battle and he might release her.
He, instead, pulled up a chair beside the bed, resting his forearms upon his thighs. His stare was as potent as the whiskey on the table, and just as desirable. She rather liked the way he looked at her as if she were an odd trinket. Maybe because the attention wasna entirely unwelcome. Though she was no naïve lass easily swayed by a charming smile or gentlemanly gesture, she did gravitate toward mysterious and daring men. Captain Fletcher was attractive, aye, but any man who commanded a ship laden with weapons of war was dangerous, and she would do well to remember that.
Treva rattled her chain in hopes he’d have a change of heart. He didn’t.
“Ye take too many risks, Miss MacDougall. One of which is lying to me.”
Hold his eye. Dinna look away. He’ll know he’s right if ye do. “Ye’ve made an assumption on my character?”
“Defiance, lass. I’ve made no assumptions that dinna align with defiance.”
“Having my best interest is not defiance.”
He laced his fingers together, his knuckles turning white from gripping his hands tight. Clearly he felt her answer was the epitome of defiance.
“How had ye found yerself on Man with a man ye’re not married to? Were ye kidnapped?” His tone indicated he wouldna believe any answer she gave, especially not that one.
For longer than she cared to own, Treva’d had to learn to think on her feet. To gather what she wanted and needed as she traversed France, England, and Scotland, she had to take on convincing roles, be fluid. She’d become adept weaving together truths and lies convincingly. But she was off her mark this night, struggling with half-truths. Desperation was to blame. If she didna get to Duncan, hundreds of lives would be lost.
“I was visiting a cousin who was marrying a British officer.” That was as good excuse as any to be on the island. And she had attended a wedding, though she didna know the bride or the groom. She’d been on a mission. A successful one, too, having gleaned much information at the event on troops moving into Glasgow.
“Hmm. So there was no man ye were running from.”
“I…I didna say that.”
“But if ye had a cousin marrying an officer, dare I say you could have sought asylum from your abuser with them?”
She must be more tired than she realized to slip up. “I’d not burden the newly married couple with my troubles.”
He snorted his disgust. “Ye didna take the trip alone, lass. Why not seek shelter with those ye traveled with? Unless, of course, this is all a fabrication.”
She retorted with a haughty huff. “Ye know nothing.” What else could she say when he shot holes into her story. She was sinking all over again.
The captain rose from his seat, planted both fists upon the mattress on either side of her, and leaned in close. She fought to not shirk away from his menacing dominance, to show no fear.
His annoyance rumbled from his chest. “Why are ye so desperate to get home?”
“For my safety.”
He shook his head, not accepting her answer. “Try again.”
“I speak true.”
“Perhaps, but there is more.”
“Ye needn’t know the reasons. The gold coins are enough to buy my passage and silence your curiosity.”
His lips curled into an unamused smirk. “Why are ye so wily?”
“I know no other way to be.” She lifted her chin, matched his keen gaze. “It runs deep in my blood.”
“That so. Or are ye aiming to be fierce in the face of real danger?”
“Real danger?” After the evening she had? She would have laughed had he not been close enough she could feel his heat, bask in it, to be truthful. “I’m well aware of my position here, captain, and I’ve also been intimately familiar with real danger.”
“And this,” he raked his gaze down to her breasts, the blue of his eyes darkened, “doesn’t feel dangerous enough?”
“No.” The captain’s musky scent tinged with brine, leather, and stout whiskey must be dulling her senses.
He drew in closer, his mouth near her temple. He tucked her hair behind her other ear, caressing the long lock all the way to it end. She tingled with the close proximity of his hand to her breast. Her skin puckered with goose flesh as his breath hit her ear. In the space of a preoccupied heartbeat, he yanked her pistol from the back of his waistband and shoved it beneath her chin. Her blood froze, rendering her paralyzed.
“How about now?” His low, gravelly tone scored down her spine.
“Ye would threaten an innocent woman to prove a point?” How high did the flames need to be before she stopped playing with fire?
The captain pulled back enough for her to see the disgust upon his face.
“No woman is innocent.”
There was real anger in his voice. Someone had done this man wrong. She’d suffer for it if she weren’t more careful.
“Whatever has ye feckless, lass, will get you killed.”
“Pirate’s blood.” He narrowed his cynical gaze and she explained further. “I am a direct descendant of Savage MacDougall, prince of the pirates of Britannia.”
“A member of the Devils of the Deep?” He chuckled his disbelief. A thankful breath slipped as he removed the pistol wedged under her chin. “Are ye making three hundred year-old Highlander pirate tales fashionable again?”
“The Devils of the Deep still prowl these waters, Captain Fletcher.”
“Aye, I’ve met a few.” He sat back down in his chair, throwing his arm over the back and letting the pistol hang from his grip. “Was not impressed.”
Neither was she. At least not with the one that still haunted her dreams. The one with a stronghold on the Isle of Canna but frequented Scarba. “I didna say I was a part of the Devils. I’m merely kin to a long-ago prominent member.”
“The prince, no doubt.”
Treva ignored his ridicule. “For years, my father lamented that my ill behavior had to come from the wild winds of our family lineage. My misdeeds started at a young age, plundering the kitchen of cooling oatcakes. As I got older, my offenses grew more serious—stealing ponies just because I wanted to ride them. ’Twasn’t until my mother—in a fit after I bribed my cousin with the liquor I raided from the stores to teach me to wield a sword—revealed what my da had meant.” She exasperated her parents, but she believed though they worried for her and wished she were more well-behaved like other young lasses, deep down they held a bit of pride for her resourcefulness. “I am heir to a pirate’s nature.”
“Fascinating.”
“Whether or not ye choose to believe it, captain, ’tis true. I didna press to tell you my story. Ye asked.”
He smirked, this time with triumph. “Your reasoning only supports that ye should not be trusted and should remain shackled until we dock in Scarba.”
Gah! He had her muddling through her own sticky web of logic. She fisted her hands in frustration and perhaps out of hopelessness. “Ye’re a fiend.”
That invoked a crooked one-sided smile. “I’ve been told. Understand, Miss MacDougall, I trust no one save my crew and those from my Caribbean brotherhood.”
“Verra well. But ye damn well canna deny me respect for risking my life for a higher purpose.”
He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “These reasons ye canna divulge to me?”
She clamped her mouth shut. She’d insinuated too much.
“The shackle stays.”
“Have mercy.”
“I’ve shown ye plenty of mercy, chit, wouldna ya say? And continue to do so. Ye are, after all, in the most comfortable place on this ship. My cabin, my bed. Unmolested.”
“For that I am grateful.” Though, was she? His seductive eyes, taunting lips, they beckoned to her like a moth to a flame. When he wrestled with her and effortlessly tossed her onto the mattress, she couldn’t help but have a moment of carnal weakness. He subdued her with composed strength but gentle enough not to hurt her. How would he handle her in a more intimate setting? Thistle thorns! She had such a nasty habit of being attracted to the wrong type of men. Her appetite for adventure had all but ruined her opinion of most gentlemen.
The captain stood. “Get some rest, lass.” She thought she caught a glimpse of humor upon his face as he moved the basin and soap chip to the table out of reach. Without another word, he left.
Treva propped herself against the bulkhead and stared out the ship’s aft window. The night sky was void of anything more than low hanging charcoal clouds that obscured the black horizon. No distinction between the sea and heaven above.
So tired. She closed her eyes, wishing sleep would take her quickly. Instead, Captain Fletcher bedeviled her mind. He made a mess out of her.
He was attractive, but still a stranger. A pirate, shrewd, powerful, and dangerous, exactly the kind of man she descended from. Tempting. He intrigued her, and she wanted to know more about him.
Treva sighed. She couldn’t get distracted by his pretty face. She’d be compliant to his demands; she really had no other choice. At least until she found another way. And she always found another way.
The air shifted, a thud and a rattle, and Treva opened her eyes. The cabin was aglow with sunlight. By the angle and brightness of the rays streaming in through the window panes, she’d slept through the morning. She stretched her stiff muscles, reproaching herself for falling asleep still pitched against the wall.
“Mornin’, Miss MacDougall.” A tall, lean, dark-haired man set down a tray of mutton, goat cheese, bread, butter, and a pitcher. He poured water into a wooden cup and glanced up with a warm smile.
“Good mornin’…?”
“Oh, pardon. Name’s Jonesy. Quartermaster of the Kelpie. I brought food to break yer fast.”
Treva was a little disappointed that the captain hadn’t brought her the food. She’d like verra much to see him again. Soon enough, she supposed.
Smells of the rich, hearty meat reached her, inciting her stomach to growl. She hadn’t had a decent meal in a fortnight.
“Thank ye. You’re verra kind.”
His smile broadened.
“But I canna reach it.” She shrugged as if it were her sad fate to starve.
The frown carving his brow as he studied her shackled, sore wrist gave her an idea.
“I’ll bring ya the tray.” Jonesy rushed to do just that.
“’Twill be terribly difficult to eat with one hand.” She rattled her chain to bring his attention back to her red, contused wrist. “I fear I would get more on Captain Fletcher’s bed than in my mouth.”
“I’ll feed ya, ma’am.” With the tray in hand, he looked so boyish. She wasna fooled by his innocent concern. He, too, was a battle-hardened pirate. The scars upon his hands, crisscrossing the flesh of his forearms under the rolled-up sleeves of his tunic and slashing through his left eyebrow proved that. But the man’s genuine concern meant he upheld moral regard for ladies. She was a bit off the mark as a lady, many in her clan would agree, if they even bothered to acknowledge her. No real lady would ever dream of dallying in treason. Not at the degree which she operated. Still, she had always tried to emulate grace and integrity, especially in social circumstances. ’Twas nice to be treated in kind.
“A noble offer, Mr. Jonesy, but quite inappropriate, wouldna ye agree?”
His cheeks flushed with his embarrassment and he diverted his gaze as he set the tray back on the table.
“Would ye consider unshackling me long enough for my repast? Ye can keep a pistol upon me the whole time.”
Jonesy rubbed at the back of his neck. “Capt’n wouldn’t like that.”
“Do ye think I’ll overpower ye? Heavens!”
He eyed her suspiciously, probably determining if she were crazy enough to sink her own boat, she’d be crazy enough to try to disarm him. He’d be right had she not been on a ship in the middle of the Irish Sea. “Ye can snap the manacle back on straightaway. Captain Fletcher would be none the wiser.”
“Capt’n Fletcher would keel haul me.”
“Och, surely not.”
“The capt’n does not tolerate disobedience.”
“Did he specifically order ye not to unshackle me so that I might eat?”
He was back at rubbing his neck. “Well, no.”
“I promise to be a good guest.” Her stomach rumbled loudly again. She mustered up a sheepish grin. “It smells delicious.”
Jonesy uttered a curse under his breath while turning on his heel. He plucked a cup off the shelf and tipped it over. Keys tumbled out into the palm of his hand. He found the one he needed and returned the cup to the shelf. Soon, Treva was free.
She kneaded her wrist, working the feeling back, careful not to pull upon any flesh where the skin had chafed away. “Thank ye, Jonesy.”
He offered his hand to help her from the bed to the chair. “Please hurry, Miss MacDougall.”
“Treva. I’d appreciate it if ye called me by my given name.”
Another blush stained his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.” He sat across from her and reluctantly placed his pistol upon the table.
She ravenously ate, especially delighting in the cheese, idly chatting with the quartermaster. It wasna too difficult to gather information from Jonesy. He was a pleasing conversationalist, attentive in answering her innocent queries. The Kelpie normally called the West Indies home but sailed to Scotland on a mission for the previous captain, a Captain Bane. They had been taking commissions until the cooler months when the warmer seas would be calm from hurricanes and they could sail home.
Just before she finished her food, she had pried about the captain. Jonesy only gave up that Fletcher was Scotland-born but bad blood kept him away. He wasna happy about returning to the country. But he owed it to his best mate, Captain Bane. Bane had married a bonny lass, leaving Fletcher to be voted in as the new captain.
Jonesy lauded Fletcher as a damn good captain and an even better pirate, handy with pistol and sword, with no fear of death, trusted no one and had no tolerance for defiance. These last two traits she had learned on her own.
Jonesy glanced at the door. “Come, Miss Mac—, Miss Treva. I need to shackle ya again.”
“Of course.” Treva took her place back on the captain’s bed and held out her red, scraped wrist.
Jonesy frowned, guilt shone in his eyes.
She winched as the metal came into contact with her skin. Aye, it hurt, but not so much to have her cringe and whimper.
“I’m sorry.”
“’Tis all right. Ye must do this. The captain canna know.”
He locked the metal rings into place. Treva bit her bottom lip and whimpered again. “If only I had some salve to ease the pain.”
Jonesy looked around the room. “No salve. We might be able to get some in Scarba. Maybe some of this butter for now? Make the metal not be so rough against your skin?”
Treva smiled inwardly. “Aye, that might do. Just set it here and I’ll apply as necessary. Thank ye, my friend.” Poor blushing Jonesy. He played right into her hands. She would have been lying if she didna admit enjoying the thrill it gave her. Another advantage tucked away for when needed.
As soon as Jonesy left, she got to work slathering the butter on her wrist. She had to verify her idea worked. She pulled on the cuff, gritting her teeth against the pain as the metal dug into the fleshy part of her thumb. And then the manacle popped off. A giggle escaped on a relieved breath. She’d now knew for sure she could escape at will should she need to.
A commotion on deck drew her attention to the door. Shouts and running footfalls had her rushing to the window. There on the horizon was a ship. A British ship. The Union Jack rolled and smacked in the wind. Treva’s knees threatened to buckle. She braced herself against the window casing.
Oh, God. What if they were looking for her? She couldn’t go back to that dark, dank prison. Couldn’t endure the smells of human excrement and decay, the rats biting at her toes, the mind-numbing sound of water dripping off slick walls in unseen corners, the beatings from the guards, and dying moans of the rotting corpses shackled to the walls nearby again. She’d rather die. And she might. The soldiers might execute her on sight. She feared for her life, but she also feared for her cousin and the rebels if she didna get to them in time. This was no good. No good.
Her heart raced as fast as her mind. She had to do something. She could hide, but where?
Treva grappled with her skirts, lifting them to reach the garter securing her sgian dubh. She gripped the dagger, held it out in front her as if it could ward off the threat quickly closing the distance. They’d find her, surely they would. She could not let that happen.