Trade
South Skye, Inner Hebrides, 1614 AD
Kyla couldn’t very well say no. “Of course, Dadaidh,” she replied without hesitation, having anticipated being asked to captain the galley that would take their guest home to the Lowlands. It would be the longest and most challenging journey she’d undertaken without her father. Truth be told, she’d prefer to stay in the Hebrides and continue her studies. Her father may have gotten along sufficiently well with Laird Corbin Lochwood to conclude a trade agreement, but she’d taken a dislike to the mon as soon as she’d met him.
However, her sire’s relieved grin was worth the sacrifice. She would do anything for him. He could have turned his back on an illegitimate daughter whose mother had died in childbirth, but he’d always loved and protected her.
“I wouldna ask but for this confounded elbow,” he said, patting his casted arm.
The tale of how Darroch MacKeegan had dislocated his elbow twelve years before was part of the family folklore; the mishap had weakened the joint and left it prone to recurring problems. It was a sore point, since he’d injured it during a raid against the MacRains of Harris, so she decided to say nothing. Her stepmother, Isabel MacRain, now Lady MacKeegan, teased him about it often enough.
“When does Laird Lochwood wish to begin the journey home?” she asked.
He wiggled his fingers, scowling at the cast. “We’ve settled on the details of our trade agreement, and the weather is good, so I’d recommend ye plan to set sail as soon as the cargo is loaded.”
Inconvenient and daunting as the voyage would be, the prospect of a deck beneath her feet lifted her spirits. Since childhood, she’d harkened to the call of the sea. Her father never tired of boasting she’d inherited the adventurous spirit of his Viking ancestors. She was certain her younger half-brothers were sick of his insinuations that they should be more like her—as well as resentful.
“I see that gleam in yer green eyes, Captain Lion,” he said with a wink.
Dabbling in piracy was a secret father and daughter shared. Her stepmother probably knew and chose to turn a blind eye—provided they never took opium on board any MacKeegan galley.
The unsuspecting crews of English vessels they’d boarded had bestowed the nickname Captain Lion upon the dashing pirate with the long red hair, not suspecting they were being plundered by a female.
She laughed, having accompanied her father on many a voyage during which he’d often reminded her, “A wee bit o’ piracy makes sailing up and down the Minch more interesting and keeps Queen Elizabeth’s merchantmen on their toes.”
He often reminisced about the days when Scotland and France were allies who did everything in their power to disrupt England’s trade routes. The union of the crowns under King James had put an abrupt end to the Auld Alliance.
“I doot Corbin Lochwood would approve o’ Captain Lion,” she remarked with a grin. “Too straitlaced by far, though I get the feeling a lecherous heart lurks beneath that holier-than-thou exterior.”
Her father scratched the stubble of his beard. “Nay one to mince words, are ye, lass? So ye dinna fancy him?”
She arched a brow. It wasn’t the first time he’d hinted she should be thinking about choosing a partner, and she feared it wouldn’t be the last. “I’ve told ye, and yer wife agrees, ’tis more important I continue my studies. Marriage can come later.”
“So, that’s a nay?”
She inhaled deeply. “I ken ye and Isabel fell in love as soon as ye set eyes on each other,” she said, “but that doesna happen for most people. Ye were lucky.”
“Aye,” he replied wistfully. “So Laird Lochwood doesna set yer heart racing?”
Something in his voice gave her pause. “What has he told ye?”
“He’s dropped a few hints, but dinna fash. I’m nay serious. He’s a Lowlander after all.”
Suddenly, the imminent voyage loomed like a treacherous rock. “Ye’re certain no one else can lead this expedition?”
“Yer brothers are too young. Auld Grig can still deftly manage back and forth between here and the Western Isles, but a long voyage to the Lowlands is beyond him now.”
She noticed again the unmistakable disdain in his voice when he spoke of the Lowlands, and it still amazed her that he’d concluded a trading agreement with a laird from Annandale who didn’t even speak Gaelic. He often referred to the borderlands as the land o’ the English in the kingdom o’ the Scots. However, she agreed with his assessment that it was advantageous for the clan to establish lucrative markets for the high quality woven cloth and animal hides produced in the Hebrides.
In exchange, their new partner would send them tobacco and other luxury items, such as silk.
“Ye ken the Lochwoods have a long and bloody history as border reivers,” she pointed out.
“Aye, but the laird assures me they only ever stole from the English. Naught wrong with that.”
She scoffed. “Ye believe they ne’er conducted raids against their age-old enemies, the neighboring Maxwells?”
He shrugged. “Hardly matters now King James has put an end to the reiving.”
She nodded. “I suppose there’s nothing as effective as the threat of transportation to Ireland to make a clan turn from murder and mayhem to pushing a plough.”
Her father touched a finger to his lips when his wife entered the solar, bringing an end to the discussion. “Kyla’s agreed to go,” he announced.
Isabel shook her head. “And what about yer writing?” she asked. “If ye want to be as famous as Elizabeth Melville…”
“Wheest, woman,” her father interjected, “I hope ye’re nay planning to have our daughter publish such religious drivel.”
Isabel thrust out her chin. “Ye ken naught about Elizabeth’s writings and…”
Chuckling, Kyla slipped out of the solar before the familiar argument got well underway.
*
Corbin Lochwood was pleased with his first foray into trade negotiations. Setting aside his disdain for barbaric Highlanders and pursuing the possibilities of an old clan alliance with the MacKeegans had been worthwhile. The goods he was taking south would make him a handsome profit in English markets.
He studied himself in the mirror as his valet arranged and pinned his dress plaid. At four and twenty, he cut a fine figure, his prematurely graying hair rendering him far more imposing than the father he’d forced into abdicating in his favor. Ranald Lochwood didn’t understand the meaning of the word trade and had only become chief after his brother’s murder by Alasdair Maxwell.
Stealing cattle and women was all very well, but less lucrative now that King James threatened transportation to Ireland for reiving clans. Trade would bring real wealth, as well as an opportunity to indulge in a little harmless smuggling. Wealth was the key to besting the cursed Maxwells once and for all. One day, he’d have an army big enough to oust them from their mighty fortress and Caerlochnaven Castle would be his. It was a more impressive seat than the drafty pile of rock in which he now found himself and certainly grander than his clan’s Glenkill Tower. Then the king would have no choice but to confer upon Laird Corbin Lochwood the title of Warden of the Solway. Moving his court from Edinburgh to London had evidently affected King James’ judgement. How else to explain that he’d recently bestowed the coveted honor on Broderick Maxwell?
The journey to Skye had proven fruitful in more ways than one. Chief Darroch MacKeegan had turned out to be a canny but fair negotiator, and Corbin had been more than pleasantly surprised to make the acquaintance of his beautiful bastard daughter. The chief’s indulgent tolerance of Kyla MacKeegan’s penchant for dressing in male clothing was pitiful, though Corbin had to admit the sight of her long legs in tight fitting trews never failed to turn his shaft to granite.
Impatient with Adrian, he elbowed him aside. “That will suffice,” he said to the valet. “It’s not as if I’ll be dining with civilized folk.”
“No, my laird.”
“I’m anxious to get back to Annandale. I suppose I should be grateful I haven’t been subjected to the tortuous Gaelic, but I’m sick and tired of the yes, yers and dinnas.”
“Aye, my laird.”
He rolled his eyes—months of schooling his young valet not to use the word Aye undone in a fortnight of living among philistines. “The MacKeegan Clan may be longtime allies, but they’re too isolated here on Skye. Perhaps they’ll realize it now they’ve had dealings with a sophisticated Lowlander. They need to be dragged kicking and screaming into the seventeenth century.”
His words conjured an image of fisting his fingers in Kyla’s thick red mane and dragging her to his bed. All the better if she kicked and screamed. His cock swelled at the prospect.
Not that he would consider marrying the wench, especially given her ridiculous literary pretensions. A clan chief was expected to wed a woman with a dowry consisting of at least a valuable piece of land.
Kyla would make a fine mistress, once he got her into suitable female clothing and purged her of the annoying brogue. The MacKeegans had wasted their time and money teaching her to read and write. It was evident to a man of discernment where her true value lay. However, it would be advisable to shove aside rousing thoughts of ripe breasts and tempting curves before he enter the so-called Great Hall of Dun Scaith.
Squaring his shoulders, he smiled at his reflection, buoyed by the recent news that the provocative Kyla was also an experienced sailor who had agreed to captain the galley that would take him home. Everything was falling into place nicely.
*
Galloway, Lowlands, Scotland
Broderick Maxwell stood atop the south tower of Caerlochnaven Castle and looked beyond the moat and the forest to the sandbars and thence to the galleys plying the choppy waters of the Solway in the near distance. He put an arm around his sobbing sister’s shoulders. “I canna count the number o’ times I enjoyed this view with our father,” he told her as she leaned against him.
Lily sniffled back tears. “He loved this castle. Do ye think they’ll allow us to bury him here?”
Broderick inhaled the salty air and looked up at the raucous gulls gliding overhead. “Nay. Mackie told me his head’s on a pike outside Edinburgh Castle and I dinna doot they’ve already disposed of his body.”
“Poor Daddy,” she wailed, shivering in the stiff breeze.
Broderick clenched his jaw, berating himself inwardly for planting such a macabre vision in the bairn’s mind. “He was aware of the punishment before he committed the crime.”
Now he’d made matters worse.
“But I dinna understand why he didna stay in France? Why come back?”
It was a question Broderick had asked himself repeatedly. Trying to fathom Alasdair Maxwell’s reasons for doing anything had proven over the years to be an exercise in frustration. Imprisoned in Edinburgh for feuding with the Douglases, he’d escaped, then murdered the chief of the Lochwood Clan. He’d shot the man in the back after an argument that erupted during a prearranged peace conference, then fled to France. He justified his actions as retaliation for the death of Broderick’s grandfather at the battle of Drift Sands more than twenty years before.
“He wasna always the most rational person,” was all he could think to say in reply.
Lily blew her nose. “Especially when it concerned the Lochwoods,” she murmured hoarsely. “But if he’d stayed away, he’d still be alive.”
Broderick narrowed his eyes as the setting sun turned the Solway to liquid amber. He couldn’t imagine abandoning this castle, this beloved bit of Scotland. Had Galloway been in his father’s blood too? “Perhaps he preferred death to living in France. Who can ken?”
She snuggled closer. “Will the Lochwoods be satisfied now Daddy’s been executed?”
Sick at heart and tired of the bloody feud that had gone on for generations, he wished he could reassure his sister. With Ranald Lochwood there might have been a chance for peace, but his son had ousted him as laird. Corbin wasn’t a man to forget old hatreds.
“I doot it,” he replied. “Nay so long as I’m the king’s appointed Warden of the Solway.”