Page 38 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)
Cormac’s eyes shot to Marjorie in disbelief. Had she really just said what he thought she’d said? She stood, staring at the smuggler. He recognized the tilt of her chin.
“ Och, good Christ . . .” he hissed under his breath. So much for allaying Jack’s suspicions. “All”—he quickly counted—“six, love?”
“Aye.” She gave one resolute nod, avoiding his gaze. “My . . . sister has needs as well.”
“Mm-hm.” Cormac’s eyes narrowed, focusing on Jack. They definitely didn’t have coin enough for all the boys. But Marjorie had made a decision, and they were in it now. “The lady has spoken.”
Jack had a strange, fixed look on his face, considering his next move. His arm angled up, hand poised over the sword on his hip. “I’ll see the money, then.”
“Aye, the money.” Taking Marjorie’s hand, Cormac took a step back toward the ladder. How was he to get all the boys and her off the boat safely? “First, my lady wife takes the boys off the boat. Then we deal with the money.”
Marjorie gasped. “But—”
Cormac squeezed her hand, giving her a pointed look. “I’ll not have you a party to our transaction .” He purposely stressed the last word, as though to imply the exchange of coin was a dirty thing unfit for feminine eyes.
Jack wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, well past pretense now. “There best be gold in that wee pouch of yours.”
“You’ll have your gold.” Cormac scanned the deck, tallying the number of deckhands posing a threat.
Jack had a sword. The old man wore a rusted fish knife in a scabbard at his waist. And there was one sailor standing alongside Jack—likely his first mate—and though he bore no visible weapons, there’d be at least a dirk tucked in the belt at his back.
The other crew members were either too far away, in the rigging, or simply not paying them any mind. Even so, Cormac imagined the moment he made a move on their captain, they’d become an issue soon enough.
He had to better his odds.
“You’ll get your payment belowdecks,” Cormac said, his voice steely. He shot Marjorie a meaningful look. “But first, you will get off the ship. You and the boys.”
The look she gave him was terror and anger and regret. He had time for none of it.
“Now.” Cormac swaggered over to the boys, mimicking contempt. “It seems I own you now.”
Jack watched quietly, momentarily appeased by the prospect of money. Or maybe the smuggler was simply appeased by the thought of getting Cormac below, where he’d knock him senseless and whisk him into indentured servitude.
Cormac scowled. Either way, it was just one more concern he had no time for.
His only care was for Marjorie . . . and the lads, he unwillingly admitted to himself.
He glared at them with mock disdain. Cords bound their hands at their bellies, with each boy tethered to the next by a single stretch of rope.
Unsheathing the tiny sgian dubh from his leg, he began to saw at the first of the bonds.
“I’ll not know what my wife sees in you ugly lot. ”
The first to be freed was a lad no older than ten. The picture of Aidan popped into Cormac’s mind, and he shoved it away again. He kicked the boy toward the side of the ship. “If you don’t hasten down that ladder, I vow I’ll leave you behind, paid for or no.”
He hated to be cruel—he’d tried to be as gentle as possible—but they had a ruse to maintain. It was life or death now. He prayed they lived long enough for the boy to thank him later.
He loosened the next few, and they scuttled toward the side, limping in a way that made his heart crack. Cold single-mindedness mellowed into calm resolve. If he ended up dying to save these boys for Marjorie, so be it. He’d known all along his life was forfeit.
“You,” he barked at the eldest. “You go down and hold the ladder for Lady Brodie.” Marjorie would just have to manage the rungs on her own. He had enough to contend with on board.
Cormac watched as Marjorie and the last of the boys disappeared over the side, and then he turned his attention to Jack. He’d need to better the odds, which meant splitting the captain off from the rest of his men.
The captain’s cabin would be aft. It’d be a small cell, small enough to accommodate only a few sailors at a time, minimizing the number of men Cormac would have to face at once.
He flexed his fingers, anticipation heightening his senses.
Despite what he’d told Ree about an aversion to confinement, he fought well in enclosed spaces.
“To your cabin,” Cormac said and then realized he should temper himself so as not to arouse suspicion. A man in Lord Brodie’s position—a wealthy noble dealing with smugglers, presumably for the first time—would express caution. He added, “You’ll get the money when I’m not feeling so exposed.”
Nodding, the smuggler led them to a small cabin at the rear of the ship.
As they crossed the deck, he studied Jack’s back. Cormac was the taller man, but the captain wasn’t exactly small. And the man had a sword, while Cormac had only his pistol. Which was a handy weapon indeed, if one had the time to load it, and time was something Cormac wouldn’t have.
He rubbed his fingers together, deep in thought. He’d need to disarm Jack and muscle his way out. His elbow grazed the knob of wood and steel holstered at his side. A cold smile cocked the corner of his mouth. Pistols were capable of more than just firing bullets.
He’d have only one opportunity to act. Smugglers or no, ships like these were run with clocklike precision. Every moment he hesitated invited interruption.
Cormac didn’t hesitate. Jack entered the dim cell. It was just as he’d imagined it: a narrow rectangle of a room featuring a bunk, a small table and bench, two portholes, and a lantern bearing an unlit candle.
Cormac stepped in right behind him, and then stepped even closer still, until he could smell the man’s sweat and feel the heat of his body radiate to his chest.
Jack stopped, stiffened, began to turn. “What do you—”
Cormac slammed his pistol down onto the captain’s temple. Jack grunted, and Cormac caught him before he toppled noisily to the ground. Hugging the man awkwardly to him, he kicked the door shut behind them, shuffling Jack forward and dropping him onto his cot.
He was back out the door at once, Jack’s sword in his hand. Though he held the blade as low and as inconspicuously as possible, it was only a matter of time before some canny sailor recognized their captain’s blade in this stranger’s hand.
A few sailors looked at him, and he held their eyes, giving them a brazenly confident nod. It was apparently an attitude they were comfortable with, because nobody raised any alarm.
He walked briskly to the side of the ship and had almost reached the ladder when he heard the old man’s voice. “Ho!”
Cormac picked up his pace, and the man shouted again, “You there!”
He sensed the activity on deck come to a standstill. There was a loud thump behind him as a man jumped from the rigging, landing just behind his shoulder.
Cormac sprinted to the edge of the ship, looking over the side for Marjorie.
The boys had congregated at the head of the dock, and she stood alone, staring up at him.
The anguish on her face broke something in him.
He hated bringing her pain, and he’d do his best to survive this.
But if he didn’t, he’d know he’d given his all, and all for her.
His years of killing, of watching the killing, all would be redeemed today, on this ship. All his terrible knowledge, his talents , would finally be put to a good end.
“Cormac,” she screamed. “Behind you!”
He tossed the coin purse down to her. “Go!”
She caught it, but then simply stood, paralyzed, on the quay.
Panic seized him. “Run, now!”
He hated leaving her alone. And then he remembered there was one person in Aberdeen, outside of her uncle’s home and apart from her charity work, whom Marjorie could count on. “Run,” he shouted again. “To your maid, lass! Hide with your maid!”
As he watched her eyes flicker bright with understanding, he heard a footfall behind him. Raising his sword, he spun, blocking a young sailor’s blade with a sharp clang, stopping it just above his collarbone.