Chapter Thirteen
A cold wind roared in from the sea, threatening to topple her from Apollo’s saddle. Tangled strands of hair whipped around her face, but Caya made no attempt to brush the mess aside. She no longer cared to see what lay before her, a long unhappy life without Declan. Jack had betrayed her yet again. Why be shocked? And why blame him? She knew exactly who and what he’d become. It had been wrong to help Jack; she knew it, and yet she’d done it anyway. She had only herself to blame.
Things had come full circle. Back to the way they were meant to be. She was in the hands of Sean O’Malley, as was the original plan. How could she be angry? If she’d never met Declan Sinclair, if she’d never known the kindness of the Sinclairs of Balforss, she wouldn’t feel anger, sadness, or betrayal at this moment. Besides, even if O’Malley hadn’t captured her, she couldn’t marry Declan. Not with the stain of her brother’s sins on her name. This unexpected turn of events had actually spared her the pain of having to tell Declan she would leave Balforss.
Her only real regret was the whisky. Because of Jack, Declan would be ruined. She had hoped that, years from now, Declan would think of her and smile. That he might always hold her in his heart with some measure of fondness. Now, he would have only bitter memories of her. For, if not for Caya, he would be whole and happy as he should be. As he deserved to be.
Peter. Was he still following them? She didn’t dare turn to look. O’Malley seemed to have forgotten the boy. Drawing attention to him might mean his death. She didn’t dare provoke O’Malley until she was certain Peter had stopped following. A part of her wished he had gone for help. Perhaps Declan or Laird John would look for her. At least they might be able to save the whisky. But then, O’Malley and his men were a ruthless bunch. If there was a clash, one of the Sinclair men might be injured or killed. No amount of whisky was worth a life.
She fretted about the driver, too. Had they killed the poor unsuspecting man? No. They wouldn’t have bothered to bind him if they’d planned to murder him. But he was an older man. Would he be able to free himself before he died from thirst or starvation?
O’Malley reined in and called for the wagon to halt. They paused where the road west came close to the coastal cliff’s edge. The moon cast a corridor of light across the rough surface of the North Sea. O’Malley pointed to a ship silhouetted in the moonlight.
“There she is. The Tigress. A pretty ship, but she’s got claws.”
“That’s the boat you use to ship herring?” Caya asked.
O’Malley made a nasty chuckle deep in his throat. “That I do, sweeting. I’ve got a cargo of little fish aboard my ship, to be sure.” He laughed out loud as if he’d just told a hilarious joke. Phlegm rattled in his chest, and he coughed convulsively. “Fish.” He coughed and wheezed. “Fish in my hold.” He laughed, coughed up the phlegm, and spat on the road.
Caya’s stomach rolled over inside her belly.
O’Malley called to the men. “Unload here, lads. One cask at a time. Jiggity-jig. It’s a long way down. Anyone drops a cask, and it breaks, he’ll pay dearly.” O’Malley slid off the horse and beckoned for Caya to dismount.
When her feet touched the ground, she felt the effect of having been in the saddle for hours. Her legs wobbled, and she staggered to the side.
“The horse needs water,” she said. “And I need to make water.”
“You’ll need to hold yer water till we reach the beach, sweeting.” O’Malley grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the cliff’s edge. For a moment, she thought he might toss her off. With what little light the moon provided, she was just able to make out a steep but navigable path along the side of the cliff that led down to the beach. And, like O’Malley said, it was a long way down.
The loose shale pathway was carved out of a wall of crumbling rock on one side. On the other, a sheer drop to the slate-strewn beach. She had never been fond of heights. They terrified Jack. She hadn’t descended but twenty feet when she heard Jack shouting from above, balking at having to carry a five-gallon cask down the incline. Caya felt a stab of pity for him and cursed herself for being weak.
She made it down the jagged picket path by clinging to the wall despite the dark and her fear. The soft soles of her boots failed to protect her feet from the shards of shale that cracked apart like sheets of ice when stepped on.
O’Malley, rather sure on his feet for a man of forty-odd years, stood on the beach and coaxed her down the last thirty feet or so.
“Good girl,” he said, when she arrived at the bottom. He pointed to a huge black hole in the side of the cliff. A cave. “Find yourself a private spot in here to do your business while I get the fire started.” O’Malley disappeared into the dark hole and re-emerged with an armload of firewood. This was their usual place. They’d been here often enough to see it supplied.
The moon was high but shrouded in thin clouds. Still, it offered enough light for her to see four shadowy figures, each carrying a cask on one shoulder and creeping down the cliffside like ants.
“Best to have your wee before my men arrive, sweeting.” O’Malley turned his back and went about starting a fire.
She ducked inside the cave far enough into the darkness to not be seen, yet not too far. The absolute blackness was terrifying, and Lord only knew what kind of strange creatures lived inside a place like this. Caya finished as quickly as possible and hustled back out. Unscalable walls of rock and churning sea sheltered the beach cove on all sides. Nowhere to run, even if she had the strength or the will.
O’Malley had the fire going. “There now. My crew will see the signal and send a launch from The Tigress. In a couple hours, we’ll be safe aboard my ship. My men will take care of the rest.”
“What do you mean the rest?”
“The Tigress has only the one launch. Lost the other in a storm. The boat can handle two men on oars and eight casks of whisky each trip. It’ll take four more trips to transfer all the whisky. We’ll set sail at dawn.”
“What will happen to my brother?”
O’Malley straightened as if she’d called his honor into question. “I’m a fair man. Jack Pendarvis will get what he is owed.”
The way he said “what he is owed” made Caya back as far away from the man as possible. She wandered to the shore, close enough that the water licked at the toes of her boots. O’Malley wasn’t a herring merchant as Jack had told her. The Irishman and his crew were, at best, smugglers. More likely they were pirates. Had they duped Jack, or had he always known he was selling her to criminals?
In England, when she had first agreed to marry Mr. O’Malley, she’d imagined life would be pleasant enough as the wife of a sea merchant. After all, the man would be out to sea most of the year. When O’Malley had resurfaced this afternoon, when she’d seen him in the flesh, watched his behavior, she’d understood what kind of hellish life awaited anyone married to the odious man. Right at this moment, though, Caya doubted all her imaginings. She even doubted if O’Malley’s intention was marriage.
Good Lord, she’d traded a life with Declan for her worthless brother’s safety. She’d made a hash of everything. Her anger at Jack for gambling with her life had set in motion a terrible string of incidents. If she hadn’t left Jack behind in Wick to fend for himself, he wouldn’t have killed that man, he wouldn’t have robbed the vicarage, he wouldn’t have attacked Peter. If she hadn’t asked Declan to shield her brother, Jack would be answering to the law for his crimes, as he should. He wouldn’t have had the opportunity to betray the location of Declan’s whisky. If only she hadn’t made mistake after mistake, Declan would still have his whisky and the Sinclairs wouldn’t be entangled in this mess, the mess she had created.
If only she could do everything over, start again, she would go to Declan right now, declare her love, and give herself to him completely. She wouldn’t care about marriage or handfasting or houses or furniture. She would just be his, the woman in his dream, and she would spend the rest of her life loving him. And maybe, just maybe, one day, she would be worthy of his love in return.
A sharp cry made her whirl around and look up to the cliff-lined path. Jack stumbled, lost his balance, and let go of his cask. The cask bounced once on the narrow path and crashed into the man in front of him, causing that man to lose hold of his cask as well. As a result, both casks rolled off the side of the cliff and hit the slate beach with a terrible crack and a tall splash of whisky. For what seemed like one awful minute, the man Jack’s cask had hit teetered on one leg with arms pinwheeling in a desperate attempt to grasp on to something, anything to keep his balance. The fall happened so fast. Two hundred feet took all but a second. A short, “Eeee,” and then abrupt silence.
The silence lasted only a moment before her brother tried to scramble back up the path toward the cliff-top, but the last man in the line blocked his way.
“No,” Caya shouted. “Stop.”
Jack had no chance of passing the big man. He could only hope to shove the giant off the cliff as well. He tried. He barreled into the fellow as hard and as fast as the treacherous path would allow. But the man was unmovable. He batted Jack off the cliffside with nothing but a swipe of his arm.
She screamed. Jack did not. She ran to him. He lay half in shadow, half in moonlight with his eyes open. Dear unmerciful God, he was not dead. Caya knelt beside him, the sharp slate digging into her knees through her skirts.
“Jack. It’s me,” she said, smoothing his cheek. “I’m here with you, dear brother.”
His eyes searched hers, frightened and pleading. His lips moved but she couldn’t make out what he was trying to say.
“I forgive you, dear one. Close your eyes now.” She fumbled for his hand, grasped it, and recited the Lord’s Prayer. Jack slipped away before she finished.
From behind her, O’Malley said, “You see? He got what he was owed. Though I dearly regret losing the whisky.”
…
Gullfaxi carried a weary Declan into the churchyard well after dark. It had been a long day, but he still had one more thing he needed to do before finding his bed. The dim light of an oil lamp glowed in the rectory window. The vicar was in.
Declan dismounted and patted Gullfaxi on the neck. “This will only take a minute, horse. Then we can go home and eat.”
The vicar greeted him at the door, tight-lipped and frowning. After a moment’s hesitation, Oswald invited him inside, but he refused.
“Nae. I’ve just come to say—”
Oswald held up a hand. “Before you go on, you should know I’ve withdrawn my proposal of marriage to Caya.”
Declan stepped back from the vicar and cut him a look. “Oh, aye?”
“I had no choice. When the church elders found out about her brother…” He sighed. “I regret having to do it, but my life is ruled by the church.”
For one fierce moment, he wanted to punch Oswald in the neck. The man had no bloody right to withdraw his offer of marriage to a blameless lass like Caya. The next instant, he wanted to blurt, “You never stood a chance, ye numpty. She was mine from the start and always will be.” But a charitable feeling toward James Oswald overcame him quite unexpectedly. How could he condemn the man for loving Caya?
He nodded to Oswald, a gesture of understanding, and said, “I’m sorry, man, and I’m sorry for thumping you the other day, too. I was out of line.”
“It’s forgotten.” Oswald stepped out over the threshold and sat down on the steps with a sigh. He produced a flask from his coat, took a long pull, and held it out.
Accepting, Declan sniffed, tipped the flask to his lips, and let a welcome swallow of good whisky slide down his throat. He took a seat next to Oswald and returned the flask. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“What’s going to happen? With Caya’s brother, I mean.”
Declan took a deep breath. “It seems he’s escaped. Managed to board a ship in Scrabster Harbour. I doubt the magistrate will expend the effort of chasing him.” He tipped his head to the side until he heard the satisfying pop and crackle of his spine.
“Long day?”
Declan nodded. “I rode all the way to Keiss and back. I needed to see my oldest sister, Lizzie. She was keeping this safe for me.” He retreived his mother’s wedding ring from his coat pocket, polished it on his shirt front, and held it up to catch a bit of lamplight.
“Will you be marrying Caya, then?”
He smiled. “Oh, aye. I expect I will.” He returned the ring to his pocket.
“I would be honored to bless your union.”
Before he could accept his offer, the sound of racing hoofbeats disturbed the evening calm. They rose to meet the dark rider as the horse trotted to a stop before them.
Magnus.
“Someone’s kidnapped Caya and stolen the whisky.” Magnus and his horse panted in unison.
What he heard clearly were Caya and kidnapped, words that felt like a blow to the head. He reached for Gullfaxi’s reins and untied them from the post.
“Who?” he demanded.
“The Irishman Jack Pendarvis had talked aboot,” Magnus said. “The herring merchant Caya was supposed to marry. He and his men took her.”
Still he could make no sense of his cousin’s words. All he could comprehend was the urgency in Magnus’s voice. “They took her from Balforss?”
“Nae. She went to Scrabster to find her brother. That’s where they got her. Pendarvis led them to your whisky stash. Peter followed them all the way to the landing cove north of Dunreay. Their ship is anchored off shore.”
Magnus’s sobering words finally sank into Declan’s thick skull. He hauled himself into the saddle, grateful he’d brought his dirk and pistol.
“I’m coming, too,” Oswald said.
“We cannae wait,” Declan shouted.
“I’ll catch you up!”
Declan called on Gullfaxi to fly for him. Gullfaxi would run until his heart burst if he asked it. Without a care for the dark or the danger to the horses, he and Magnus raced up the road toward Dunreay full tilt.
Prayers for Caya’s safety were useless. He’d leave the praying to the vicar. What Caya needed now was action. Tonight, he would make the North Sea red with the blood of those who had stolen his woman. Taking O’Malley’s life was the only thing that would slake his bloodlust.
They weren’t too late, he assured himself. They would find Caya, and she would be unharmed, untouched. She was a brave, sensible woman.
She had to be fine.
The whisky was a lucky thing. Lucky because it would take time to get the barrels on board the ship. Had they not stolen the whisky, O’Malley would have already raised anchor and set sail.
No. They would not be too late.
A quarter-mile from Dunreay, a dark figure stepped into the road, waving his arms. He and Magnus slowed. It was Alex. The sight of his cousin, the fiercest warrior he had ever known, made his heart slow to a dull thud. His uncles were there, too, John and Fergus. Ian and his brother-in-law, Hamish, as well. And Peter, bless the lad. Had he not been so clever, they’d have lost Caya for certain.
“Where’s Caya?” Declan asked, hopping off a lathered and blowing Gullfaxi.
Alex made signs for all of them to quiet. “We’ve been spying on them from the cliff above the beach about two hundred yards north.”
Ian leaned close to Declan’s ear. “We think they’ve taken her aboard,” he said, as if Caya had already died. He wanted to shout a denial, but held back.
Just then, another horse rode up and skidded to a halt. Vicar James. The men spared him a curious glance before turning back to Laird John.
“They’ve taken the last load of whisky and left four men ashore,” Laird John said. “My guess is the launch will return in another hour for the men. That leaves us little time to plan.”
Fear began to consume Declan by chunks. It had crept up the back of his legs and was now making its way along his spine. Every muscle in his body strained to keep himself from charging down the cliffside and slashing every man he met into pieces. But he knew any rash action now would mean certain death for Caya.
“Kill the men on shore, and attack the ship,” Alex said, as if the solution to the problem was obvious.
“Aye, but it takes time and effort to board a ship like that,” Fergus said. “The crew will spot us and call the alarm. We’ll all be dead before one of us gets on deck.”
“Not if you’re dressed like pirates.” Everyone turned to stare at Oswald. He stammered for a moment. “I mean, can’t we arrest the men on shore and disguise ourselves in their clothing? In the dark, the crew won’t discover the ruse until we’ve boarded her.”
“We?” Alex asked. “You’re a priest.”
“They’ve got Caya. I need to help get her back.”
Declan looked the vicar over. If Oswald loved Caya even half as much as he, the man was dying inside. “The vicar is with us.”
“Are you sure?” Alex asked.
Oswald nodded. “I’m positive.”
“Fine,” Laird John said. “The vicar poses a reasonable plan. But there’s no use trying to take the pirates alive. They know they’ll be hanged so they’ll fight to the death. Best we try and take them unawares.”
Alex twirled his dirk in his hand. “There’s only four of them on shore. Six if you include the oarsmen who will arrive in the launch. We can take them easily enough.”
Magnus added, “That means they’ll be expecting only six returning in the launch. Six of us against how many more on board?”
“I ken how many.” All eyes shifted to Peter. “That’s a double-masted sloop. The crew numbers twelve to fourteen.”
“How do you know, laddie?” John asked.
“I ken everything about pirates and their ships. O’Malley called the ship The Tigress. I saw her in Scrabster Harbour this afternoon. She’s a howker or maybe a collier, about eighty-seven feet long. Say she has fourteen crew plus the captain. Two lie dead at the bottom of the cliff. We’ll take six on shore. That leaves seven men, at the most, aboard ship. And they won’t be expecting us.”
“You’ve learned your numbers well, man,” Alex said, as proud of the boy as if he were his own son.
“That still leaves the problem of how to sneak up on the men on the beach without being seen. There’s only one way down. The crew will spot us and send up the alarm,” Fergus said. Everyone grunted their agreement, but no one offered a solution.
Declan appreciated Peter for his knowledge and enthusiasm, but he was straining at the bit to take action. He felt as though every second they stood on shore debating was another second shaved off Caya’s life. He paced while he tried to think of a way to get down to the beach and across the water to the ship. Something about this place was familiar to him. But how? Why did he know this place?
And then it came to him, and his body went slack.
“I ken another way.” Everyone turned to listen. “There’s an opening to the cave farther north. Do you mind it, Magnus?”
“Aye. We used to play here when we were lads.”
“It’ll be a treacherous climb down in the dark, mind you,” Declan said. “But it’s the only way.”
…
O’Malley wouldn’t allow her to bury Jack. No time, he had said. And no shovels. Caya’s worst suspicions about O’Malley were proving true. Perhaps the best she could hope for at this point was an early death. Such were her dismal thoughts as the oarsman rowed away from shore. Away from Scotland. And Balforss. And Declan.
When they reached The Tigress, she was obliged to climb into a kind of swing, whereupon the crew hoisted her aboard like cargo. O’Malley climbed a rope netting that hung down the side of the ship. Once standing on the deck, she felt that queasy sensation she’d had on the voyage to Scotland. Sailing did not agree with her.
She counted at least eight shadowy figures standing motionless on deck. They seemed to be staring at her, though she couldn’t see their eyes in the darkness. O’Malley shouted at them to load the whisky. He delivered a few more orders, to which Caya took no heed. Suddenly, she raced to the railing and retched. She vomited up bile and the strong spirits O’Malley had made her drink after witnessing Jack’s death.
“Poor child,” O’Malley said. “Come with me, sweetings.”
“I would like to lie down, please.”
“Of course.” O’Malley opened a hatch and motioned for her to climb down a ladder into a dark space. He lowered a lantern to her and followed down the ladder.
She held the lantern out, casting a short glow of light on various items: sacks of grain, barrels, cannonballs. It looked nothing like the cabin space aboard the ship to Scotland.
From behind her, O’Malley said, “Keep going, sweetings. Just ahead there. I want you to see my shipment of herring.”
The lantern threw light on what looked like an animal pen made of horizontal wooden boards spaced three to four inches apart. Something rustled inside the pen, living things shifting and moving about. O’Malley produced a key and unlocked the hasp. When he pulled the door open, she shined the lantern inside the pen.
Four big-eyed, disheveled-looking women huddled together in a corner.
“Behold, my cargo of little fishes,” O’Malley said and laughed.
“What?”
O’Malley lifted a boot to her behind and shoved her inside the pen. As he slammed the door and locked the hasp, he said, “There you are, sweetings. Get acquainted with your new sisters.”
She grabbed at the door and rattled it. “Wait. Come back. Why are you doing this?”
O’Malley offered no answer. She listened to his receding footsteps and the thump of feet on the deck above.
“How do you do?” She turned to look for the source of the refined English voice.
The four women bobbed polite curtsies her way. Speechless, and operating as if in a dream, she returned a curtsy.
The tallest of the women squinted at her as if she had trouble seeing in the dim. “My name is Miss Virginia Whitebridge.”
“I’ll take that for you,” another woman said, and she relieved Caya of the lantern. She hung it on a hook overhead and introduced herself. “I’m Lady Charlotte Goulding of Black Port Lodge.”
“I’m Caya Pendarvis of, of…Balforss.” Her heart hurt when she said the name. But for her, Balforss would forever after be her home.
The other two introduced themselves. Her head was still reeling from this unexpected turn. She could barely retain their surnames, much less their places of origin. One thing she noted, though. All were from good homes. Miss Whitebridge and Lady Charlotte were from England, Miss Tucker from Edinburgh.
The fourth woman, the youngest, Morag Sinkler, had been taken from her home in Wick. Wick? Oh dear Lord. When O’Malley hadn’t found Caya in Wick, had he taken Morag in her stead?
“Please have a seat, Miss Pendarvis.” Miss Whitebridge indicated an overturned crate. The others found similar spots on which to sit. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea,” she added. Lady Charlotte laughed lightly at the absurdity of Miss Whitebridge’s jest. English to the core.
“Why are we here?” Caya asked. “And what’s going to happen to us?”
The women exchanged furtive looks.
“Please. I want to know.”
At last Lady Charlotte said, “It’s not good news, I’m afraid. The captain plans to sell us in the West Indies to—” She pressed her lips together.
“To who knows who,” Miss Whitebridge finished for her. “The good news is that, so far, none of us has been molested by captain or crew, they feed us—”
“My uncle’s pigs eat better slop,” Miss Tucker interjected flatly.
“But they do feed us.”
The last brick of fear fell into place. With the layers of lies peeled back, she could at last see the reality of what lay ahead. O’Malley was not a gentleman, he wasn’t a herring merchant, he wasn’t even a mere smuggler. He would not be her husband, and she would not be his wife. Caya was his merchandise. She would be sold to a house of prostitution, where she would live a short, unhappy life.
Miss Whitebridge tilted her head in sympathy. “We’ve all been through what you must be experiencing now. You’ll weep for a while. Be seasick for a while. But in a day or so, you’ll be yourself again.” Miss Whitebridge turned to the others. “We must all remember to remain true to ourselves.” It was odd. The other women seemed to defer to Miss Whitebridge, even though Lady Charlotte held the rank of nobility.
Caya pretended to agree. They all pretended to agree. That seemed to be their way of dealing with this nightmare. But she knew the truth. She would never be herself again.
…
Searching for the cave opening in the dark, Declan and Magnus were reduced to crawling on hands and knees. Had the opening been sealed? Had he somehow misremembered? Was this even the cave he and Magnus had explored when they were nine and ten? His heart had been beating double time since Magnus had delivered the news of Caya’s abduction. Now he was growing short of breath. He fought back the urge to panic.
“Found it,” Magnus rasped.
He scrambled to Magnus’s side and helped tear away the rough grass covering the opening.
Alex leaned over his shoulder. “Jesus.”
“It’s much smaller than I remember,” Magnus said.
The opening was the ideal size for a boy of ten, a slit in the rocks approximately two and a half feet long by ten inches wide. From what he recalled, another four feet farther down, the opening expanded. Being lean, he thought he could slither inside. But Magnus could not fit his great chest through the cleft. Nor could Alex.
“I’m going down,” Declan said, and he slipped his feet into the hole.
“Wait,” John said. “We need four men of stealth and deadly skill. I think I can make it. Who else?”
“Me,” Ian said.
“I can,” Peter said.
“Nae, lad. We need your knowledge of the ship. We cannae afford to lose you.”
“I’ll do it.” Fergus stepped forward.
Hamish wrapped a hand around Fergus’s arm to stop him. “Nae. I’m the best man with the knife. I’ll go.”
Though not blooded in battle like the other five former soldiers, Hamish was undeniably good with a knife. Declan had seen his ruthless precision cutting leather for saddle and harness.
Alex demonstrated for Hamish. “Approach from behind, one hand over his mouth, pull him to your chest, and slide the blade across his throat quick and deep as ye can, aye?”
Hamish nodded once.
“Right then,” Laird John said. “Declan, Ian, Hamish, and I will go down through the cave opening. Once we’ve dispatched the men on shore, the rest of you take the cliff path, but be careful. More than one man has already fallen to his death.”
Confident, Declan and his team of assassins removed their shirts and shoes and slithered one at a time through the rough rock. Declan went first, holding on to a rope, glad of the dark. Had he been able to see his suffocating surroundings, he might have balked. When he had cleared the narrow stone channel and could stand upright in the opening, he tugged on the rope.
Ian went next, followed by Hamish, then Uncle John. As each man emerged from the slotted entrance, he was helped by the others and held steady on his feet until he adjusted to the inky black. The air in the cave was not still. Wafts of salty sea breeze swept over Declan’s face, and he inched toward the source.
The four men remained connected, one hand on the wall, the other hand on the shoulder of the man in front of them. Declan moved forward, guiding them down, down, down—partly by memory, partly by instinct, mostly by his need to reach Caya.
None of them spoke. The only sound was their collective breathing, which echoed eerily inside the cave. At last, he saw the literal light at the end of the tunnel. The half-moon cast a pale blue glow on the beach. To their good fortune, the four pirates huddled downwind of their fire, their backs to the cave opening. The swoosh of the wind and waves, the crackle of the fire, and the talk among the pirates covered the sound of blades being drawn and bare feet padding over stone.
Working as one, the gruesome job was over in an instant. Declan signaled the others waiting above, then pulled the dead men into the shadow of the cave and removed the blood-soaked clothing while Alex and the others descended the cliffside path and hid inside the cave.
Upon reaching the beach, Alex joined Uncle John and Ian inside the cave. They made their transformations into pirate clothes and resumed positions around the fire. Declan breathed in. Taking action, taking a life, helped assuage his fear. He calmed himself and readied his mind and body for battle. There would be more blood spilled tonight. Payment for Caya’s abduction. Hopefully, none of it would be Sinclair blood.
He took a moment to inspect the two dead bodies lying at the base of the cliff. One of them was Jack Pendarvis. A small part of him felt sorry for the foolish man, sorry for the grief Caya must feel for losing her brother. But the greater part of him was relieved he wouldn’t have to kill the man himself. Caya might never have forgiven him.
Taking the oarsmen was child’s play. Ian and Declan made the killings. Magnus and Uncle Fergus donned the bloody garments of the oarsmen. They doused the fire and readied the launch.
Laird John stopped Hamish. “I need you to remain on shore. After we take the ship, we’ll signal, and you can relight the fire.” John turned to Vicar James. “You’ll lie facedown in the bottom of the craft, covered with the tarpaulin until the six of us are over the rail and the battle has begun. You’ll stay with the boat. We’ll get Caya off the ship first, and you’ll row her back to safety.”
“Understood,” the vicar said.
Peter, Oswald, and the six disguised men climbed into the launch. As they rowed toward The Tigress, Peter asked, “What about me?”
“Ah, yes. You’ll be the diversion,” John said. Declan heard a smile in his uncle’s voice.
After a desperate struggle and vehemently whispered protests, Alex and Laird John had dressed Peter in tartan plaid and head kerchief to look like a lass. If Declan weren’t worried to the point of madness, he would have laughed.
“There now, laddie,” John said. “The crew will be so busy looking at the whore we’ve brought them, they willnae pay any mind to the rest of us.”
“But I want to fight.”
“Peter, listen,” Declan said, turning the boy to face him. “You ken the layout of the ship. As soon as we’re on board, point me to the captain’s quarters. That’s most likely where Caya will be, aye?”
“Aye,” Peter said grudgingly.
“Then throw off your women’s clobber and check the hold. There’s a chance he would lock Caya in a cabin below. I want her freed and off the ship as quick as ye can. Do you understand, man?”
“We’re halfway there,” John said. “Time to start the performance, men.”