Chapter Sixteen

“Meg thought she heard a woman yell,” Ava said to Adam as she followed him back down the path to the beach. The fog was so thick, he could not see the water.

“Ye stay at the castle with Meg and Rabbie,” he said. Ava stopped, and Adam led the small group of Maclean warriors, including Liam, and his brothers along the shore. The tide was receding, making Lark’s and Elspeth’s tracks easy to follow.

They could easily be lost in the fog. But surely Lark would just follow the shore or their own tracks back. Unless she’s decided to leave. The thought threaded through his mind like poison, making his jaw ache. Did the pregnant woman have a way off the isle?

Only the crunch of pebbles answered him as they jogged along the shoreline. The men were quiet, listening. Liam came up to stride even with him. “I still think it would be a good idea to get her and Lark off—”

Adam’s hand shot out to catch Liam’s tunic in his fist. He looked right into his face. “No more talk about any of that. It has nothing to do with ye.”

Liam sputtered. “I am only concerned for ye and the Macquarie line.”

“Cease it or consider our friendship severed.” Adam dropped his shirt and continued to stride forward, following the path of footprints. “Damn,” he cursed as the prints faded along the rocks. He looked to his brothers who were higher up. “They might be in the woods. Their prints here are gone.”

“Lark,” Callum called.

“Elspeth,” Eagan added, hands cupped around his mouth.

Beck was slightly ahead. “Shite, Adam. There are two sets of prints coming down from the woods.” He met Adam’s gaze with worry. “They are heavy and large. Two men, and it is recent.”

“Two men? Bloody hell,” Liam cursed behind him, making Adam turn. The man had both his hands up in his hair, raking it as if his scalp itched. He seemed to search the sand near his feet. His eyes were a bit wild, and his lips rolled inward.

“What is it?” Adam demanded.

He shook his head and dropped his arms. “Let us keep looking.” Liam cupped his mouth. “Lark!”

Adam’s chest tightened, and he ran forward into the mist, his gaze trained on the path before him, looking for footprints. Lark and Elspeth’s names were being called every few seconds by his brothers and the Macleans, and yet there’d been no answer. Who the hell was on his isle?

He stopped at the waterline where the rocks were overturned and churned up by deep gouges. “Lark,” he whispered, following them.

“Drag marks,” Drostan yelled from a few steps ahead. “A rowboat came ashore and left here.”

“Fok,” Adam heard Liam curse behind him, but he didn’t look back. He jogged forward, his eyes trained on the evident struggle in the sand. His gaze slid along the shore and stopped.

Running forward, he scooped up the boot that lay on its side. “Lark,” he whispered. I am lucky. I lost a slipper just in time for you to find it.

He stood, holding the leather boot. Even without the men’s footprints, he knew she’d not left him. “Someone has taken her,” he yelled, staring out at the water where the fog met it, willing her to appear. Pain twisted inside him, his heart pounding with the need to act.

“Both of them,” Callum said.

Bloody hell. Lark! The mist seemed to close in around him when all he wanted was to swim through it to her. When she’d bared herself to him, pouring out the horrors of her past, it was all he could do not to pull his sword and rush off to slaughter her tormentor. The need to protect her had overwhelmed him then, and the thought of losing her now gripped his chest so hard he almost doubled over.

“Beck, Eagan, get the rowboat,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

“We cannot even see in front of us,” Eagan said. “We will be lost in the fog without a direction.”

“I will go alone!” Adam yelled. “Straight out from here.” He pointed the boot toward the gray swirling mist.

Liam growled as if tormented. “Damn it all! South, likely south.” He threw his arm out to point farther down the beach.

Adam turned. “What the fok do ye know about this?” The look on his old friend’s face was sheer torment. Adam charged across the beach, grabbing him by the throat. “Where is Lark?”

“I just needed ye to get off the isle,” Liam said, his lips pinched. “But nay. Ye had to settle Wolf Isle right when I had nearly finished negotiating with the French.”

“What the bloody hell are ye talking about?” Drostan yelled, all of his brothers and the small band of Macleans forming a circle around them.

“The French?” Callum asked. “What do they have to do with Lark?”

Adam shoved Liam, letting go of him so that he fell back onto the churned-up sand. “Lowder is French, isn’t he?” Adam asked. “The accent was odd. I could not place it.”

Liam pushed backward as Adam loomed over him. “Why would he take Lark?”

“I told him not to,” Liam yelled back. “But when ye refused to leave the isle, he followed ye to the Beltane Festival, and he saw her.” He shook his head. “Became obsessed with her. He was going to take her away from Roylin, but then she wed ye.”

“Followed us?” Beck asked. “To kill us?”

Liam looked down at the sand as if shame weighed heavy on him. “I did not think he would be successful.”

“Where would he take her?” Adam demanded.

Liam shook his head. “I swear, I thought I had convinced him to leave her be. He was looking for the gold crosses that the monks on Iona were said to hide on the isle to keep it from King Henry.”

“The holes dug about the village,” Callum said, spitting. “And I bet ye were going to take a portion.”

Liam didn’t deny it. “I was protecting Ulva and Mull from the English,” he said.

“Ye were setting up an outpost for the French here?” Adam asked, remembering the ship that Cullen and Tor had seen.

“Ulva is apart from Mull and has been abandoned for a century. It is a perfect port for his men,” Liam said quickly.

“Chief MacLean will flog the skin from your back,” one of the Maclean men said.

This was taking too long. Adam grabbed Liam by the collar, lifting him to shake. “I do not give a fok about your deals with the French. Where is he taking Lark?”

Liam’s eyes bulged in his face over Adam’s brutal grasp. “The captain must be taking her to sail away on his ship.”

“Captain?” Callum roared.

“What is his name?” Beck asked, but Adam already knew.

Liam swallowed, meeting Adam’s gaze. “Jandeau. Captain Claude Jandeau.”

…

The rough cording of the twisted rope cut into Lark’s wrists where she sat on the deck of Jandeau’s large ship, the fog still swirling around the sails as twilight ebbed to night. Muriel and two younger girls huddled next to her.

Iain MacLeod paced near the captain. “The rocks around this cursed isle make it dangerous to pull anchor with this fog blocking the stars,” he told Jandeau.

The fraudulent priest looked much more at ease in sea clothes, a brimmed felt hat on his head and a long seaman’s coat over his broad shoulders. How could they have possibly mistaken him for a humble servant of God? His face was hard, his eyes sharp, and scars ran around his neck as if he’d survived a hanging.

Jandeau’s hooded gaze slid to Lark. “As soon as the fog thins, we depart.”

Iain MacLeod stopped before him. “Two of my men are still out digging in that new spot outside the village. King Henry is stealing everything from the abbeys and monasteries. The old woman swore the Iona monks had buried their golden relics on Ulva.”

“She lies,” Jandeau said, the cruel twist of his mouth making cold tingles run along Lark’s skin. He turned to face Iain. “She has been lying all along.”

“When your men took her girls after the storm, she swore on her mother’s soul that the monk’s golden crosses were buried farther to the west,” Iain said.

Jandeau walked over to Lark, his gaze assessing them all. He caught a lock of Lark’s hair between his fingers to rub. “There is no gold on Ulva, MacLeod, at least not the type of gold the French army needs to pay their troops. But fresh mademoiselles will fetch a high price when we head back to the southern islands. King Francis will need to find a different outpost.”

Lark yanked her head away from his fingers, her teeth gritted. “Adam will hunt you down.”

Jandeau’s mouth relaxed into a wry smile, his hand still hovering in the air near her head. “In his little rowboat or maybe on his barge with one long pole?”

He grabbed her chin in a tight pinch, his other hand going behind her head as he leaned in to stare hard into her eyes. “I understand you are responsible for the death of one of my men when he tried to retrieve you in the woods.”

Lark braced her tied hands before her, trying to relax even though Jandeau held her in a way where he could easily break her neck. He leaned in toward her ear, inhaling, his lips brushing the lobe. “You will pay dearly for that, Lark,” he said, drawing out her name. “I can be a generous lover, but when one deserves punishment, your screams will mix with your moans.”

Lark couldn’t even breathe. Rape, her worst nightmare. She had managed to evade it with Roylin only to find herself faced with it again. Not if I jump to my death. The thought flickered into her mind, rooting there, giving her an escape that allowed her to inhale.

Jandeau leaned in, settling a gentle kiss on Lark’s mouth, as if they were lovers. Somehow the softness made it even more terrifying than a bruising kiss. She held still, waiting for it to pass. When he backed up, she stared him right in the eyes and spit. He chuckled softly and stood, smiling down at her while he adjusted the bulge in his pants.

Iain MacLeod’s wide face was twisted in anger. “We had a deal, Jandeau.”

The pirate turned on him, his teeth bared as if he were close to gutting Iain right on the deck. “The Macquaries are still alive, and Ulva Isle is not empty for my commander’s troops to land. Your Isle of Skye is too populated, and your brother has said he will not let us set our camp there.”

“But ye have the lass,” Iain said.

“Whom I had to take myself.”

“I helped,” he murmured, glaring at Lark like this was her fault. He turned back to the French captain. “Liam Maclean said that Gometra Isle next to Ulva—”

“Is only one mile by two miles in size. Non.” Jandeau shook his head. “Too small for the French Navy.” The angrier he became, the more his accent slid to French. “The agreement was Ulva Isle and any treasure we could recover in exchange for protection against the English for your Isle of Skye and perhaps Mull if that Maclean idiot actually helped us secure Ulva. But there has been no monks’ treasure found and no foothold in Scotland for the French.”

Iain grabbed his head as if to yank the hair from his scalp. “For a cursed clan, the foking Macquaries are hard to kill. Ye lost four of your own men to them when they followed them from the Beltane Festival at Glencoe.” He dropped his hands. “Your crew could finish them off with your numbers alone.”

Jandeau stared upward at the rigging where two of his men worked. “Tor Maclean made it clear that he and his warriors support the Macquaries and will come to their aid. I will not waste anymore months on this cursed isle.” His eyes dropped to Lark. “I have what I want and will make a nice profit off the others.”

He waved his hand toward the dark bulk of Ulva, still covered by fog. “Take a leap and swim back to shore with your life, little Scotsman.” He shrugged.

The pirate that Adam had left alive in the clearing came close to Lark, squatting down before her. He yanked his sleeve to show the poorly healed wound on his arm. “We meet again,” he said, his tongue snaking out to slide along his bottom lip. “Shall I tie her to a bed below, Capitaine?” the crewman said, his eyes raking down her. “For the men to take their turns.” His lecherous gaze moved to the other girls. “All of them, although the whelping one may need to be standing.”

“Non,” Jandeau said, his gaze sliding along their line. “I want the two young ones pure for selling.” He pointed at Muriel. “And I do not want le bébé to be harmed. It will fetch a good price on the market.” He stared hard at Lark. “And la mademoiselle Lark is mine, at least for now.”

“Oui, Capitaine,” the crewman said, disappointment in the pinch of his frown.

Jandeau turned to walk back toward the wheel. The girls were weeping, and Muriel had her eyes squeezed shut. “Do not give up,” Lark whispered.

“Ye have a way to get out of this?” Muriel asked, her voice wavering with subdued panic as her eyes blinked open. Hope warred with despair in her damp eyes.

Lark worked her hands behind her, her gaze remaining on the horrid pirates preparing lines about the deck. “I have a dagger,” she said between her teeth, finally getting the blade to slide down from her sleeve, the edge leaving a trail of fire that probably swelled with blood. “Try to work it against my ropes.” She turned so her back was to Muriel.

“Even so,” Muriel said as she grasped it with the tips of her fingers, moving it in a saw-like jab, “how can we get past them and onto the shore? I cannot jump off the ship into the icy water with my bairn inside me.”

“One step at a time,” Lark said, her mind churning desperately.

The blade was sharp, and with Lark helping to push against it, her rope broke. Muriel passed it back, but Lark dropped it with the slipperiness of her blood on the handle. “Damn,” she whispered, leaning back to find it with her freed hands.

“There is a patch of sky,” one of the crew yelled, and Jandeau began to call orders as if they prepared to sail. “’Tis clearing, and it is not yet night.”

Faster. Faster. How could they get away? Adam! Would he think that she left him? That her shame was too great to face him and his brothers again? If she jumped overboard, would he find her body upon the rocks and think she had killed herself?

She cut through Muriel’s ropes and passed the blade back to her to free her friends. “Act as if your hands are still tied,” Lark said to them, meeting their terrified gazes. They were barely breaching womanhood.

“Raise the anchor,” Jandeau called out, shooting fear through Lark.

I can always leap overboard. But she could not kill herself and save the four souls next to her. She forced herself to breathe slowly to dispel the sparks flitting in her periphery. She scanned the edge of the ship. Where was the dinghy that Jandeau and his man had used to bring them to the ship? She spotted it tied along the far side where a crewmember worked on a tangled net.

“Kate and I can swim,” one of the girls whispered.

“The sea is cold and dark,” Muriel warned.

The girl named Kate turned wide eyes to her. “Nothing in the sea is worse than them.” She cast eyes toward the pirates.

“I would rather be swallowed by a whale,” the other girl said.

Lark looked behind at the coiled rope and then nodded toward the dark bulk to the right of the ship. “Ulva sits over there. Run for help at the castle.” They nodded, and Lark slid the end of the rope to them. “Tell…” She swallowed past the pressure of tears. “Tell Adam Macquarie that I did not leave him.” They nodded.

“Muriel?” Lark whispered.

“I cannot swim with this belly. I will drown, and so will my bairn.”

Holy God. Lark couldn’t leave her there alone. She glanced at the girls. “Climb over,” she said, catching the knotted loop into an iron hook built into the deck.

“Come,” Kate grabbed her friend, shifting slowly up the wall, their hands behind them as if they were still tied. Kate threw her leg over, caught her skirts in one hand, and disappeared.

“Go,” Lark ordered, and the other girl scrambled over.

“Stad!” Iain MacLeod yelled from the other side of the deck.

“Run for the boat on the other side,” Lark yelled at Muriel, snatching up the sgian dubh.

“There’s a man there!”

“Just go!”

Blood had dried over Lark’s hands from the slice down her arm, but seeing it didn’t slow her down. Iain tripped on another coil, giving Lark time to aim as Muriel ran toward the side.

Instead of aiming at Iain, Lark threw her dagger at the man by the boat. The blade sliced into the side of his neck, and he doubled over, clutching it. Muriel reached him, struggling to lift the coiled rope, and Lark ran toward her.

“Ye whoring bastard,” Iain yelled, grabbing Lark’s hair from behind. She fell to her knees near the dead man, her fingers inching forward until she reached him. Desperate to hold onto the heavy body, drawing it closer, she grasped the dagger’s handle, yanking it from his blood-soaked neck.

She rolled, slashing at Iain. “Damn you to Hell,” she screamed, swiping a cut along his surprised face.

He reared back, holding his bleeding cheek. Two more crewmen ran forward, but Lark turned, helping Muriel throw the heavy rope over the side. “Get in the boat!” Lark yelled. “Lower yourself.”

She turned back in time to meet the men, her arm slashing through the air with wild strokes. “Get back!” She needed to give Muriel time to save herself and her babe. “I curse you all!” But they did not back away. Either they were not superstitious, or they did not speak English.

Jandeau’s French words boomed out over the chaos and the squeak of the rope in the wheel overhead.

Lark held the sgian dubh and used her other hand to grab onto the rope that was sliding steadily through the wheel. She lifted herself onto the rail with every bit of strength she could muster. Her skirts blew in the sea breeze, threatening to topple her over. But if she fell there, she could hit Muriel in the boat on the way down.

“You wish to die, mademoiselle?” Jandeau asked, striding toward her.

“’Tis better than being tied to a bed and raped over and over,” she sneered. If she kept him talking and his men away from the rope, Muriel would get away. Then she could jump, although the impact might stun her unconscious. Dying, blissfully asleep in the cold ocean, was far better than anything else presenting itself.

Brandishing the sgian dubh at two more crew members and Iain, she prepared to jump. The rope still creaked in the pulley as it slid through her fingers.

“Come now, Mademoiselle,” Jandeau said, stalking closer, his men clearing a path for him. “Surely where there is life, there is hope, non.” She held the sgian dubh in her bloody hand, and yet he continued forward. He didn’t know that she’d practiced every evening behind her house when Roylin would saunter away to the tavern.

“You care nothing for my life,” she said. Under her fingers, the rope stopped. Muriel had reached the water.

Jandeau shrugged. “I am a man with a love for a woman’s body.”

“You cannot be serious. You have no love for anything but your jack.”

“And gold,” one of the men said, making several of them laugh.

Jandeau’s frown slid to them. It was the distraction Lark needed. As she drew her arm back, the man she’d hit in the clearing threw his own dagger. Searing pain shot from the point embedded in her arm to her shoulder, and she screamed, doubling forward.

Jump. She must jump or they would have her. Adam. I am sorry. As if in slow motion, Lark let go of the rope and turned, crumpling to meet her death in the dark, cold water below.

But instead of dark nothingness, Lark looked into…a face. “Adam,” she whispered, not sure if the pain had robbed her of sense. His arms reached out to her, pulling her over the rail. Had God gifted her with an easy death? Falling into Adam’s arms into the ocean? “I am sorry,” she whispered, and black fog engulfed her.