Highland Faith Read online

  How could she get away? She wasn’t strong enough, but she was smarter than the man who held her and most likely smarter than the laird leading the way to God knew where.

  The laird held up his hand for them to stop. The hidden men shuffled in the surrounding wood.

  “He’s a tricky lad,” Dougal whispered. “Can ferret out trouble quicker than haggis rots.”

  She grunted. “Grand. I hope my laird is ahead and is ready to fight.”

  The man laughed, then quickly sobered. “We ken your lairds, lass.”

  Damn.

  She tried to wiggle out of his arms once again.

  His grip tightened. “Cease, lass. You’re beginning to vex me.”

  She was beginning to vex him? Bah, the man had lost his mind. She was vexed. And worried, truth be told.

  The laird indicated with his arm for the men to follow. They continued through the wood until they came to the rocky shore of the sound. Her captor tossed her to the beach.

  She glared at him as she stood and rubbed her backside.

  One by one, the other men revealed themselves.

  Dear God, they were the devil’s spawn. A giant of a man moved to the boat and unlooped the rope securing the tattered rowboat. Dougal barked orders above the crash of the waves and the calls of the gannets swooping down to catch their midday meal.

  She glanced at the tall man, then toward the boat. Would they fit?

  She bit her lip and turned toward the forest, hopeful there were only two men and the laird; they wouldn’t be hard to out run. Just as she took a step to the narrow path, someone grabbed her arm.

  “I suggest you get in the boat, darling,” the laird warned in a low voice that rumbled from his chest.

  She glanced up at the man as she clutched her hands in frustration. Anger banked deep within his gaze, shifting his blue eyes to a murky black. His grip tightened and she watched as white lines framed his mouth and eyes. “I mean to ransom you, lass.”

  She tipped up her chin. “Aye, my laird will be willing to offer a basket of potatoes.”

  More anger flashed in his gaze as his mouth curled into a menacing grin. “She’ll give more than potatoes. I ken you’re her sister.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The lady’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

  All spit and fire, this one. And lovely to boot, more’s the pity.

  ’Twill be a miracle if he would be able to keep the lass safe from the baser needs of his men for the entire voyage.

  If he were lucky, he’d have Lady Faith MacAlister ransomed off within the fortnight, and he’d be on his way to repay his father’s debts. His family’s honor remained at stake; if he were to be honest, guilt over his brother’s death ate at him. Every time he thought of Michael, he’d see his beaten body. If only he’d been with his brother, Michael would still be alive today.

  And since he wasn’t, retribution must be paid in order to gain the respect of his father and to resecure their lands.

  “Who are you?” the lass said without a hint of rancor. The way she angled up her chin with a sense of arrogance he’d only witnessed in men intrigued him.

  With a quick bow, he said, “Graeme Ross at your service.”

  She scoffed and looked down her nose at him. She fisted her hands at her waist and jutted out a hip. “You aren’t a laird?”

  “Well, that’s to be determined, darling. Right now, I’m your captor—best keep that in mind.”

  Her muscles flexed beneath his grip and he released her. One had to admire a lass who didn’t faint dead away when his ragtag group of men captured her.

  Just as he admired her golden curls, she moved toward him and stepped on his toe. He followed her gaze. “’Tis the rest of my crew.” He set his hand at the arch of her back to stop her retreat. Heat radiated from her curvaceous body. Aye, he’d have to keep an eye on his men around this fetching lass.

  “Men, come and meet Lady Faith MacAlister of Wild Thistle Keep and our latest bounty.”

  “Bollocks,” the lass snarled at him.

  Aye, spit and fire.

  His men skulked forward in their usual manner—hesitant and distrusting.

  “Aye, Captain Ross.” Dougal said.

  The lass narrowed her gaze at him. “Captain?”

  He chuckled as she blanched. “Aye.” He pointed to his crew. “’Tis Dougal who you have already met. He’s my sailing master.”

  She nodded toward him. “Aye, I’ve met the arse.”

  Dougal bristled. “Not much of a lady, are ye?”

  Lady Faith straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “Nay.”

  He laughed at the vexation on both of their faces. “The rest of my crew. Amit, Bram, Colin, Alec, and Wee Will.”

  Her brow rose in question. “Wee Will?”

  His tall mate blushed and looked to the rocky beach.

  “He’s lost his tongue.”

  A dash of sympathy stole over her lovely features, and he almost took her for an endearing lady instead of the spirited huntress who tried to fight him.

  Faith MacAlister was a comely lass, to be sure. Even in her britches, or more so because of them. The way the worn material molded to her curves had him wondering if he had a gown aboard the ship. ’Twould be less tempting for him and the motley crew he’d assembled.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded. Her haughty tone set his nerves on edge. How dare she question me?

  For such a wee lass, she had a booming voice and appeared to enjoy voicing her opinion.

  He winked, not ready or willing to share his plan with her. He had to keep her at ease, which would be harder than he anticipated with this brave woman. “A captor never reveals his plan to his captive.”

  She heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Let’s get on with it. Have you sent your demands to my sis—laird?”

  He rubbed his chin. Nay, he hadn’t, but Amit would slip ashore after sunset and make his way to Wild Thistle. First he had to have evidence he actually held Lady Faith MacAlister.

  ’Twas a shame to cut one strand, but with locks the color of golden honey, her sister would ken he held Faith and that he meant business.

  “In the boat, darling.”

  She regarded the boat and then the water. The waves crashed over the rocky coast, tipping the boat upward, then quickly downward. Despite the sunny, warmth of the day, the sea never abated its rage against the narrow beach. A green hue tinted her skin. Och, the lass afraid of the water?

  “I’ll keep you safe,” he said as he led her toward the boat. “I have to.”

  Her bounty would pay his father’s debt as well as leave enough funds to make needed repairs to the castle and surrounding lands. Most importantly, restore honor to his clan.

  She gave him a look full of worry, but with a wee bit of trust deep within those green eyes of hers. They were bewitching when the shifting color filled with gold, emerald, and flecks of brown.

  He lifted her into the boat. As he set her down, his hands skimmed over her hips. Aye, she’d need a gown, no matter how dangerous they were on a ship. Her britches were too fetching, to be sure. And the lingering gazes of the crew confirmed as much.

  Wee Will gripped the oars, and the mate rowed with ease. As they pitched over the first crest, Lady Faith leaned over the edge and emptied her stomach.

  Bollocks.

  He grabbed her hair away from her face and held onto her arm; he couldn’t afford to lose her off the side of the boat. She swatted his arm away as an irritated grimace flashed across her face.

  “I’m well,” she said harshly as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  He watched her, narrowed his gaze, and just looked at her. He tried to keep the smirk from his mouth, but damn
if he didn’t fail.

  “I dinnae care for the sea.”

  He laughed at her furrowed brow. “You live on the sound.”

  She rolled her eyes and he laughed again. “Aye, ’tis a grand topic of amusement in my clan.”

  As Wee William rowed, he kept a close eye on his captive. ’Twouldn’t do to allow harm to come to her. His father needed him. Aye, his father would see he needed his only son to save their castle, the one his father had so stupidly lost due to his wretched spending and gambling.

  When his brother had died trying to stop the creditors from taking the castle, he knew his father wished he was the son who had died. Every glance, sneer, glib remark pointed at the son who’d failed the family.

  Why hadn’t he arrived earlier? If he’d been at the castle when the Crown’s men had shown in force, mayhap, just mayhap he would have been able to talk sense into his brother. Or, he thought ruefully, he could have helped his brother challenge the men, fight them together instead of his brother protecting the castle on his own.

  Anger, regret—guilt filled him. He had to ease the guilt that was killing him slowly but surely, eating away at his gut and heart.

  From the moment they’d left his brother Michael’s dead body at their door, his father had wailed, drunk himself into a stupor, and blamed his surviving son for all of their woes. And he did the same, and claimed responsibility.

  He’d arrived home after several nights of carousing and making sweet love to a lass he’d met at the pub.

  His father had all of the ammunition needed.

  Laird Ross had thrown his son out with nothing but the clothing on his back. Not that his father would be residing at the castle for long. The magistrate had stated that his father had tried to fight—had even charged after the creditor with a sword held high. But naught came from it but a swift punch in the jaw.

  Michael foolishly attempted to kill the creditor. Didn’t they realize the creditor would have men with him? Men to protect him from angry landowners?

  He’d felt for his father and the prospect of losing the centuries-old Ross lands. Family honor and making amends prodded him into action. ’Twas all he had since his mother had died when he was but a lad. And Michael, aye, his brother, his hero, and he’d let him down.

  He’d pledged to make amends for not being there to help his brother and help his father despite their differences.

  With their castle gone, he had to make restitution for his father’s debts and secure the castle for his family once again. To save his father’s spirit, to save even himself from a life of living without concern for others, the selfish lad who been absent when his father needed him, he had to prove his father wrong.

  And by proving his father wrong, he had purpose, and he needed a purpose, needed to be worthy of his heritage and his clan.

  “How much longer?” Lady MacAlister asked. She swallowed and shook as if she were going to slip over the side of the boat.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulled her tight against him. This cargo was too important to lose. “Not long, darling. Not long.”

  She tucked her head against his chest and sighed. Bollocks, the water must vex her so. The vulnerable sigh told as much.

  Lady MacAlister then proceeded to retch all over his lap.

  Chapter 2

  She was going to die—first of embarrassment and then of the tossing of the boat. Her stomach roiled and she wished to be back at Wild Thistle and away from the heady presence of the man beside her. His gentle handling of her since they’d pushed from shore warmed her heart and irritated her at the same time.

  She gripped the edge of the boat; all thoughts of escape fled her mind as she tried to will her stomach to behave.

  How she loathed the sea.

  Heat flooded her face as the captain watched her. He ripped off his liene and tossed it overboard, yet he left the equally soiled tartan in place. She gaped at him. Dear God, ’twas as if he were carved of stone. His broad shoulders and muscular chest led to a narrow waist. His bronze skin glistened under the sun as if tempting her to touch. Downy hair covered part of his chest in the same brilliant black of his hair.

  More intriguing were the markings along his shoulder and over his arm. Swirling designs like the carvings on the kirk crosses marked his skin. Much like the markings on Dougal’s face. The pattern was intricately drawn and it fascinated her how it seemed etched within his very skin. She moved to trace them, then jerked back when she realized the train of her thoughts.

  He winked at her when he caught her staring.

  Truly, she wanted to die. She’d just disgraced herself by losing the contents of her stomach from a wee wave. And damn if she didn’t need to do it again.

  And Captain Ross hadn’t uttered a word when she’d lost her stomach on his lap. Either he counted the minutes until he would be rid of her or he possessed unending patience.

  “Go ahead, darling.” He gripped her arm to steady her as he moved her to the side of the boat. “You’re still a bit green.”

  She leaned over the side and let go.

  The horror of her situation made her retch until nothing remained in her stomach. She’d never been in a boat despite living on the Sound of Sleat. Her sisters loved the water, but all Faith had seen the churning, angry sea on the night her father died. The sea had hastened her father’s death by thwarting the men from getting him to the safety of the shore and brought them to a tumultuous juncture in their lives.

  Amit said something in a tongue she didn’t understand. Where did the man hail from? India, mayhap? The captain laughed, then frowned when she cast him a glare.

  “He’ll fix you a tincture when we arrive on my ship.”

  As if she’d drink it. She looked at the man the captain called Amit. She’d heard of the many men from India who worked on English ships, but she’d never seen one. Amit wore strange clothing, presumably the same clothing worn in his country. He wore a long coat over trousers that were nearly like trewes, but looser. And instead of the tam many Scottish men wore, it looked as if Amit had wrapped his head with linen cloth.

  He nodded toward her, but didn’t smile. He only watched her with a dark, solemn gaze.

  Surely she was being punished. First she missed the stag, then her kidnapping by this . . . this group of ruffians, and then she’d retched until it felt as if her stomach flipped inside out.

  What the devil had happened to her life?

  “Hold the boat steady,” the captain commanded. “Grab my hand.”

  She glanced up and saw they were at his ship. Dear Lord, it rocked worse than the wee boat they were on.

  A large ship loomed before them with several, oft-repaired sails and cannons peeking out of the side. ’Twould take a large crew to command such a vessel. Yet all of the captain’s men were in the rowboat. She hoped they didn’t capsize or run ashore. She continued to inspect the ship before her. Aye, if she were one to favor water and ships, she’d have to agree ’twas a beaut of a vessel, even if a wee bit tattered around the edges. Her gaze traveled from fore to aft. The stern held a cabin below the quarterdeck with windows comprised of blue, green, and clear glass, creating a spectacular image. The faded words scrawled on the bow drew her attention.

  Nay, couldn’t be. But yet . . .

  Laughter began to bubble and she couldn’t hold it back.

  Written across the bow of the ship were the words, Blue Boy.

  He followed the direction of her gaze and scowled. “’Twas what my mam called me.”

  “Sorry,” she sputtered as the ridiculous name and strange circumstance started to overwhelm her.

  “You dinnae have to insult my ship,” he said indignantly.

  By now her laughter had turned into a fit and she nearly fell into the churning water. The name mattered not; truly, her
mind reeled at being kidnapped and forced onto a ship.

  She grabbed Captain Ross’s arm as her stomach rose in her throat and hung on until he pulled her upright.

  He looked down his nose at her; a haughty glare filled his blue eyes. “No more havering about my ship?”

  She shivered at the thought of those cold eyes, the idea of tumbling into the dark, violent water, and climbing the ladder to the safety of the ship’s deck. “Aye.”

  “Grab my hand,” he repeated without waiting for her answer.

  She did as he bade, and he started up the ladder one rung at a time as he held onto her hand. He practically dragged her as she scrambled to secure her footing on the rungs. She glanced down and saw the men waiting in the small boat.

  Weren’t they going to join them?

  “Watch your step.”

  She reached the top and lifted her leg over the bulwark. As she shifted her weight, the ship pitched and she landed with a thud on the deck.

  Captain Ross tipped his head back and laughed. She heard the chuckles of the other men still in the rowboat; she stood, all the while glaring at the captain. By the time her clan came to the rescue, she’d have a bruised backside.

  “You are not a gentleman.”

  He grinned and said, “Aye.” He winked and tipped his head toward the stern. “I have a cabin beneath the quarterdeck. You may use it.” He turned to the man with the markings on his face. “Dougal, gather some clothing. Mine are a wretched mess.”

  While the captain spoke, she’d tried to keep her gaze from his bare chest. Och, rude of her, to be sure, but the man had a physique to be proud of and one that would cause many a lass to swoon. Not that she’d swooned over a man before. Mostly, they annoyed her with their attempts to impress her or out-hunt her. Merely curiosity encouraged her musings about the strange markings along his shoulder, she told herself. Why did he have them and who’d etched them into his skin? Did it hurt?