Shannon Drake - The Pirate Bride

SHANNON DRAKE

“Combining lush historical detail with a strong love story, Drake sweeps readers away with her graceful prose and sizzling sensuality. No wonder she’s a fan favorite.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Queen’s Lady

“Shannon Drake continues to produce addicting romances.”

—Publishers Weekly on No Other Woman

“Drake is an expert storyteller who keeps the reader enthralled with a fast-paced story peopled with wonderful characters.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Reckless

“Romantic progress and rising suspense keep the book running on all cylinders.”

—Publishers Weekly on Beguiled

“Captures readers’ hearts with her own special brand of magic.”

—Affaire de Coeur on No Other Woman

“Drake weaves an intricate plot into a delicious romance, which makes for captivating, adventurous and wonderfully wicked reading.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on When We Touch

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For Bobbi Smith—

wonderful writer,

amazing friend.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Victory and Defeat

The West Coast of Scotland

1689

“THE CHILD! For the love of God, Fiona, you must save the child.”

The wind was stark and cold. Fiona’s vision blurred, and she could do nothing but feel, and what she felt was a cold wind blowing. All her life, she had loved her home. The rich colors of the braes, the hard rock of the cliffs and crags, and aye, even the wicked cold and bitter wind that came with winter. Despite the chill, a day such as today often meant the coming of the spring, when the earth would burst forth with a wild beauty that was beloved by those who knew it and held in awe by those who did not. Aye, good God, but she loved her home, all the brilliant blues and mauves of spring, and the rich greens of summer…even the gray of an angry and overcast winter’s day.

All swept away now.

By the bloodred spill of life that had been the final result of William III’s so called “glorious revolution.”

“Fiona!” She felt her husband’s hands on her shoulders, shaking her. She opened her eyes and stared into his, and she knew then that she would never see him again. They were to pay. The Highland Scots were to pay for their opposition to William, for their loyalty to the legal king, James II. Catholic or no, by God’s right, he should be king. And the Highlanders had proven their mettle—as they had so many times before—but it had been in vain, and now they were to be thrashed ruthlessly and without mercy in return.

“Ye’ve got to go now, my love. I’ll be with you soon enough, I’ll warrant,” Mal told her, his eyes shifting from hers as he smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

“Ye’ll not see me again,” she whispered. At first she didn’t feel the pain of that realization, only the whipping of the wind. But then she saw the endless blue of his eyes, the rich waves of his nearly midnight hair and the rugged planes of his face. His mouth was broad, his lips generous. She thought of his smile, of his kiss.

And suddenly the pain was like a knife ripping through her. She cried out and fell to her knees, and he quickly knelt down beside her, ignoring the men who awaited him, both his cavalry and his foot soldiers. It was not so regimented an army as the one that came after them, or the one they had so recently and brilliantly beaten with skill and daring. They were Highlanders, clansmen, and aye, they could feud, but when they fought together, it was as brothers. Still, they had their own minds and did not always need orders. But they had their hearts and souls when their weapons were poor. They would die for one another, in a bond not often found in the paid ranks of the enemy’s army.

“Fiona, come.” He reached out to help her to her feet. She saw his hands as they took her own, and they were wonderful hands, strong, long-fingered, capable of holding her with passion and a child with tenderness. She was suddenly terrified that she would shame him by screaming hysterically at the knowledge that he was going to die. And his death would be a crime against God, against nature, for he was a beautiful man in his strength and wisdom, not only in his flesh, and in the love he felt for the land and their God and all those who lived in their small corner of the world.

“The child, Fiona. You must protect the child.”

She staggered to her feet, trying to see despite the curtain of her tears. She stood tall and reached a hand to the child standing near, wide-eyed, afraid, and yet so sadly old before time could make the years go by.

Mal suddenly bowed his head, perhaps to fight the dead light of destiny in his own eyes, then clasped his offspring, shaking.

Then he straightened and planted a last, fiercely sweet kiss upon her lips. “Gordon, take my lady and my child, and see them safe.”

Malcolm turned then, taking his horse from one of his men, a distant cousin, as were so many. Gordon’s hand fell upon her shoulders. “To the tender, my lady, swiftly now.”

She was blinded. It was the wind, she told herself, but she knew it was the tears that streamed down her face, unheeded. As they raced to the shore, she wiped her cheeks and turned, lifting her babe, looking back one last time on the man she so loved.

Laird Malcolm, kilted and magnificent, sat upon his great charger, shouting to the men around him. And from the shore she could see the valiant charge of the Scots as they raced up the hill, their battle cry upon their lips.

They would die well.

They would not be dragged to the gallows and mocked as they died. Warriors all, they would battle their enemies to the death. Mal had claimed they would triumph, as they had done before, but she knew of a certainty that this time courage would not be enough.

In her arms, her young one squirmed. Ah, but so strong and tall already! “Me da!”

“Aye, Father goes to battle,” she murmured.

Then, high atop the hill, she saw the enemy.

They came in one great mass. Thousands…and thousands…

She turned, tall, straight, no tears flowing down her cheeks now. With Gordon helping her along, she hurried to the water, where the tender waited. An oarsman, cloaked, his head down, sat ready.

“Hurry, man, hurry!” Gordon cried. “Ye must get her to the ship.”

The oarsman rose and cast back his hood, and she looked in the man’s eyes. Her heart leapt to her throat as she saw his face.

“Nay, I shall not,” the oarsman said.

Gordon drew his sword, but the oarsman was ready. As fine and experienced a warrior as Gordon, his hand was already at the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak, and when he lifted his blade, it was to slice Gordon through.