The Pirate’s Angel Page 3

  His sister shook her head as she sat back in her chair. “I still cannae believe ye came overland. Some sailors ye are.”

  “My arse hurts,” Dane pointed out, unhelpfully. “Da made us ride horses.”

  “The horror,” Charlotte said blandly.

  “They rock in odd ways. Different from a ship.”

  As Charlotte chuckled and asked another teasing question, Tavish was struck again by the notion he’d done wrong by his son. Dane was a good lad, aye, strong and brave. He could play the pipes as well as any siren and could stay on his feet through the hardest wind and weather. He was quick and nimble and had learned to climb, thanks to the rigging and mast, and knew which end of the blade to toss first.

  But were those skills Dane needed to know?

  Aye, if he wants to become a sailor. The next Black Banner, mayhap?

  For generations, the pirate known as the Black Banner had been terrorizing the merchant ships of the Minch. Some thought him a myth, but a few knew the truth; the black kilt and black sail had been passed on through each generation; the new captain inheriting the reputation and the legend.

  Uncle Rory had been the Black Banner twenty years ago, and Tav had been raised on his uncle’s knee learning and loving the stories of bravery and gold. But the role of the Black Banner had changed. Now, Tav and his men no longer stole from innocent—albeit filthy-rich—merchants. Now, they worked for Scotland and the Bruce’s interests, as relayed through the Queen to Charlotte.

  He’d always assumed his son would follow him, and one day don the black kilt and raise the black sail. But is that what Dane wanted? Is that what the lad deserved?

  Or did he deserve to learn to ride a horse without complaining, climb trees in the meadows, tussle with other lads, flirt with lassies, and watch his brothers and sisters grow strong and healthy and—

  Brothers and sisters?

  Damnation, ‘twas not the first time Tavish had found himself considering a future with more bairns. And as much as he realized he was wanting more bairns, he also wanted his son to know the bonds of brotherhood in a way Tavish himself never had.

  Dane was still chatting with Charlotte about the adventure of crossing Scotland on horse. “It took four bloody days because we had to keep stopping for the horses to eat. The birlinn doesn’t need to eat. Or shite.”

  Charlotte nodded sagely. “And it likely goes faster. But Dumbarton to Sterling to Scone is faster by horse than ship.”

  Before Dane could respond, both Tav and his sister sat up straighter and turned toward the door, having both heard the slap of running footsteps along the corridor. Tavish reached for the sword at his belt and noticed his sister’s hand drop below the desk, likely for a blade, when the door was thrown open.

  Liam Bruce, Charlotte’s husband, didn’t even acknowledge Tav’s presence. Instead, breathing heavily, his frantic gaze landed on his wife.

  “Princess Margaret…Alex!” he began, gasping for air. “They were playing in the gardens. I left them with Murtaugh and Tearlach when I went to court.”

  Charlotte pushed herself to her feet. “What is it?”

  “The bairns—the royal princess—they’ve been taken. Kidnapped!”

  Chapter 2

  Court seemed to last forever this afternoon. Or mayhap ‘twas just because Isabel was worried for the Queen. Elizabeth knew how vital it was she bear a live son, and she was no longer young. Hopefully, this pregnancy would be successful, although sitting on a throne and holding court likely wasn’t as beneficial as resting in her chambers would be.

  Isabel shifted on the hard bench, earning herself a glance from Avaline. Ava had been born a lady, but her time in the nunnery had apparently made her able to endure hardships—like firm wooden seats—better than Isabel.

  Stifling a sigh, Isabel turned her attention to the gathered men and women. Some carried scrolls, some whispered behind hands. For a while, she’d amused herself by stealing glances at the tall Highlander in the rear of the hall; the one wearing the MacLeod plaid with the lad by his side.

  Throughout her years at court, Isabel had come to know the identity of the man: Tavish MacLeod, Charlotte’s brother. She’d even met him a time or two but couldn’t recall meeting his son; assuming the rumors were correct, and the lad was Charlotte’s illegitimate nephew. She’d once told Isabel her twin brother rarely traveled without his son, which Isabel thought was strangely sweet for the warrior sailor Tavish MacLeod.

  But when she glanced back to the rear of the room, he and the lad were both gone. He’d done a wonderful job of trying to remain inconspicuous, but ‘twas impossible for so handsome a man to blend in with the paint. With that auburn hair a few shades darker than Charlotte’s, dark eyes, wide shoulders and striking good looks, more than a few of the Queen’s ladies had been eyeing him.

  With him gone, and Isabel no longer to join the ranks of the ladies surreptitiously glancing at him, there was naught to do but listen as the latest petitioner droned on in front of the Queen. Desperate for a diversion, Isabel’s eyes swept the hall, and she startled slightly when Charlotte herself stepped from the small door in the rear.

  That door led to a chamber only a few paces from Charlotte’s office, which had been handy a few times when the Angels or the Queen had had to move discretely. She frowned when she realized Charlotte looked worried.

  Isabel glanced at the Queen, who couldn’t see Charlotte. When she looked back, Charlotte held Isabel’s gaze.

  Slowly, deliberately, she held up a fan. And then dropped it.

  The sound was lost in the general hubbub of the hall, but Charlotte didn’t glance at the dropped accessory. Instead, she held Isabel’s gaze, as if willing her to understand.

  She did. The dropped fan was the Queen’s signal when she needed an excuse to adjourn court, and Charlotte knew it. The spymistress was telling Isabel she needed the Queen out of there. And since Isabel was the only one who’d seen the signal…

  She arranged her expression to one of distress and lifted her fingertips to her forehead. She swayed slightly, enough for Ava to turn in concern. Knowing the impropriety of speaking, the darker Angel just lifted a brow, and Isabel willed her to understand as she swayed again.

  Ava’s eyes widened, and Isabel figured it was enough warning.

  Uttering a feeble little, “Ooh,” she leaned against Ava’s side, and when the nobleman lecturing the Queen broke off, and his attention turned to her, Isabel gave a moan and collapsed against her friend, her hand fluttering weakly to lie against her chest.

  Immediately, the Queen understood. “Lady Isabel! Are ye ill?”

  Avaline played her part well. “Forgive her, Yer Majesty. She was recently complaining of a headache. The hours must have caught up to her.”

  Jumping forward from her place with the other ladies’ maids, Brigit, helped “lift” Isabel, who did a credible job moaning pitifully. Once surrounded by her friends, she breathed, “Charlotte wants us and the Queen in her office posthaste.”

  Avaline shot to her feet, waving off offers of help. “I’m certain she will be well again soon.”

  The Queen, understanding the need for deception, and likely appreciating the reprieve, also stood. “My lords and ladies, it has been a long afternoon. You must all understand the importance of loyalty, and Lady Isabel de Strathbogie has been one of my most loyal friends. I will see to her now.”

  There was some whispering, some likely remembering ‘twas not the first time this ruse had been employed, but no one objected when Elizabeth swept past her ladies, touching Isabel slightly on the arm as she went, to lend credence to their subterfuge.

  With Ava and Brigit’s help, Isabel made it to the small door in the Queen’s wake. Once the door was shut, the three of them hurried after Elizabeth and her guard toward Charlotte’s office, which was a small room with a cheerful view out its lone window, a few paces away from the Queen’s private solar. The solar was where the Queen and her ladies often met, but the office was for Angel busi
ness.

  And from the expression on Charlotte’s face, this was definitely Angel business.

  When they pushed their way into the office, Isabel was surprised by how crowded the small space already was. Liam Bruce stood with his hands on the hilt of his sword, his expression stony, as his wife paced. Two of his men—brothers Murtaugh and Tearlach—were behind him, one sitting against the wall, blood dripping from his cheek, while his brother crouched over him, tending to the wound.

  And against the back wall, Tavish MacLeod stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking worried.

  As the Queen’s party crammed into the small room, it became even more crowded. Liam’s face paled further, and he stepped toward them. “Yer Majesty—”

  But his wife interrupted him. “Sit down, Elizabeth,” she said bluntly, reminding everyone here that she was the Queen’s closest friend and confidante. “Ye too, Isabel.”

  Frowning in confusion now, Isabel did as she was ordered and found a spot on one of the benches along the wall as Elizabeth settled into the chair before Charlotte’s desk. The spymistress planted her hands on her desk and leaned forward.

  “It pains me— Oh, God, it pains me so! Elizabeth…” Charlotte shook her head once, as if to clear it. “Margaret’s been taken.” When the Queen gasped, the red-haired woman shot a glance at Isabel, before focusing on the Queen once more. “The princess was playing in the garden with Alex. They were both kidnapped.”

  Elizabeth may have reacted, but Isabel didn’t notice. ‘Twas as if all the air had been sucked from the room, all at once. This time, it wasn’t a pretense as she reeled back, her coiffure slamming into the stone wall behind her.

  Alex was gone?

  Her boy—her light—had been kidnapped? Why couldn’t she breathe? What was— Why was everything so fuzzy?

  Suddenly, a hand dropped to her shoulder; gentle, despite its size. Numbly, she followed the hand up to the arm, before finally landing on the concerned gaze of Tavish MacLeod. “Steady, lass,” he murmured.

  Why was he here?

  Alex was gone.

  Alex was gone?

  By all the saints, she had to—

  She might’ve stood, but the man’s gentle pressure kept her rooted. “Look at me, lass. Breathe,” he urged, his voice no louder than a whisper.

  She wanted to shake him off, to tell him to let her go so she might find her son, but there was something in his dark blue gaze which kept her pinned. And as his nostrils flared, and he inhaled, she found herself doing the same.

  When he exhaled, so did she, and then she found herself breathing easily in tandem with him. After a long moment, the panic seemed to subside, and he nodded in approval.

  “Good lass.” Then he patted her shoulder, like Ross Fraser might pat that hound of his, and that more than any show of concern helped Isabel rein in her emotions.

  She swallowed and turned back to the room to see Ava and Brigit both comforting the Queen.

  Ava held the monarch’s hand, holding back tears, as she repeated, “This is horrible!”

  Aye, ‘twas horrible. Horrible for the mothers whose children had been taken, and horrible for the country which already teetered on the brink of a succession crisis.

  “Why would someone want to kidnap the boy and the princess?” Liam asked out loud.

  His wife snapped, “Why would someone want to assassinate the Queen, remember? We found that out, and we will find out the answer to this riddle as well.”

  “My men—”

  “Aye, yer men, my love,” she agreed, “but my women as well. Court and Cam and Rosa are in Glasgow, but ye can bet I will call them back to investigate this. All of my Angels will help.”

  Angels. Isabel was an Angel. The reminder seemed to be the cause of the strength gently flowing through her veins. Aye, she was an Angel, not some soft court lady.

  Well, aright, I am a soft court lady, but I can handle danger as well. I will get Alex back!

  She was tempted to stand, but the tall warrior at her side still rested his hand atop her shoulder. Nay, more than that…his thumb was making small circles against her. She likely wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the fact the collar of her gown had shifted and now the callused pad of this thumb brushed against her naked skin every rotation.

  It was inappropriately arousing for the situation.

  And very, very comforting.

  The Queen’s voice—thick with controlled emotion—broke through the debates. “Maud? She is safe?”

  Liam nodded once. “Aye, Yer Majesty. My men have doubled the guard on the nursery. She and Roger are with their nurses.” Of course, Charlotte and Liam’s wee son would’ve been with the youngest princess. “Murtaugh and Tearlach were in the garden.”

  At his nod, one of the two men—Isabel recognized him as Murtaugh, although the brothers looked enough alike to be twins—straightened away from his brother’s wound. Clasping his fist to his chest, the pale-looking man bowed at the waist.

  “I take full responsibility and full blame, Yer Majesty. Had I—”

  “Ye wee daft idiot,” rasped his brother from the floor, “I’ll no’ let ye get away with accepting all the blame.”

  The Queen flicked her fingers impatiently. “I’ve known you long enough to know you’d give your lives for me and my children. Just tell me what happened to the princess.”

  And to Alex! Isabel wanted to shout, but the weight of the hand on her shoulder gave her strength to be patient.

  The brothers exchanged a look, then Tearlach pressed a palm to his wound and nodded, urging his brother on. Murtaugh settled into a reporting stance.

  “When Liam followed after the Queen to prepare for court, he put us in charge of the wee lassie and earl. They were having such fun climbing and—”

  When he hesitated, Charlotte leaned forward. “Aye?”

  Murtaugh winced. “Well, nae offense is meant, but the princess leads a boring life, and the wee earl is no’ in the habit of having fun and getting dirty.”

  When the guard glanced apologetically at Isabel, she wanted to nod, to let him know she wasn’t offended. Alex was a serious little boy. But she couldn’t seem to make her voice work.

  “So ye allowed them to play longer,” Charlotte supplied.

  Murtaugh blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Aye, and it’ll haunt me, believe ye me. But ye ken how the princess can look at ye with those big eyes and ask for aught and—”

  “What happened?” The Queen’s tone told all gathered she was in control of herself and ready to plan for the future.

  “They came over the wall. Tearlach shouted, ‘They’re in the trees,’ and I barely had time to draw my sword before they fell on us. We acquitted ourselves well, but none were wounded heavily enough to stop their escape. With the bairns.”

  Charlotte cursed, long and low, and her husband didn’t blink an eye at her language but nodded to Murtaugh. “We hadn’t realized that wall was such a security risk. Once we retrieve the princess, we will fix it.”

  “And Alex.”

  It wasn’t until all faces swung toward her that Isabel realized she’d said the words out loud. Despite the hand on her shoulder—offering her strength and an anchor—she lifted her chin and met Charlotte’s eyes. “We’ll retrieve the princess and Alex.”

  Charlotte dropped her chin in agreement. “Of course.”

  It wasn’t until Tavish MacLeod’s thumb resumed its slow movement against her skin that Isabel realized he’d paused, awaiting his sister’s response.

  Liam asked his men, “Who were they? Did they demand a ransom?”

  Murtaugh hesitated and glanced at his brother, who winced.

  “Most wore breeches,” the injured guard rasped, “but I saw clan colors. MacNeil colors.”

  “Ye are certain?” Liam demanded. “There was much confusion.”

  “I am certain,” Tearlach confirmed, his strength weakening.

  ‘Twas Liam’s turn to curse, and Charlot
te shook her head. “I dinnae doubt Tearlach’s eyesight, but there are many plaids which can be confused for the black and blue of MacNeil. Why would the MacNeils steal the princess and the earl?”

  “Mayhap he thinks to barter for something—more power?” Avaline offered.

  Brigit shook her head. “They have always supported the Bruce and Scottish independence.”

  The warrior at Isabel’s side spoke next. “Their new chief, Domnall, is already a man of middle years. He might have different views.”

  Forcing herself to participate, to ignore the image of Alex alone and afraid—or worse, injured—Isabel made her voice work. “He fought with my—with Edward—in Ireland, did he no’?”

  Charlotte was nodding. “If, in fact, Domnall MacNeil kens aught of this traitorous action, we will discover it. But I will also send my Angels to other clans.” She was reaching for a piece of parchment, obviously thinking aloud. “MacArthurs bear similar colors, as do Dundas. Hell, even Campbell! I’ll have Court and Rosa investigate.”

  “I will go to Barra,” declared Liam forcefully, but his wife and the Queen both shook their heads.

  “I need ye here to guard Her Majesty,” Charlotte told him without looking up. “Barra is an island. I’m sending Tav.”

  The room erupted with voices; some in agreement, some opposed. The Queen twisted in her chair to stare, not at Isabel, but at Tavish MacLeod. When Isabel worked up the bravery to look up at him, he was nodding.

  “No’ only is Barra an island, ‘tis remote and small. If Liam approached at the head of an army, they’d have plenty warning.”

  “What could they do against an army?” Murtaugh scoffed.

  “Have ye no’ seen Kisimul? With a freshwater spring, that castle is impenetrable. And accessible only by water.”

  Murtaugh sneered. “So we’re to send a common sailor instead?”

  Liam sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I hate to admit it to the smarmy bastard, but Tavish is far from common.” He winced as he dropped his hand and shook his head. “He and his men are well-suited to sneak into Kisimul, if ‘tis truly Domnall MacNeil behind this treachery.”