Page 1 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son (Brides of Chattan #3)

Prologue

13 YEARS AGO, CALLANISH, ISLE OF LEWIS

T he ancient mud was just thick enough to hold Bastian’s laundry peg sailors at attention like the standing stone they surrounded. They were naval marines, of course, the kind who sailed tall wooden ships far out to sea, beyond the beyond, leaving the MacLeods and the Macaulays alone, with Bastian bouncing back and forth between them.

The laundry peg navy had traveled inland to investigate the circle of stones, rowing little boats like the Lewis fishermen used to cast their nets. Now they stood in a line—one, two, three—on guard and awaiting orders. The captain, however, was engaged in a rather rude argument with his first mate over whether or not to retreat.

Stomach growling, Bastian looked up to find the sun beginning to dip behind the massive old stones. The captain had best hurry up and make a decision. Miss Macaulay would already be sore at him for pilfering more laundry pegs to fill out his regiment . If he was late for dinner too, even his dimples might not save him.

With another glance skyward, he scooped up the sailors and stuffed them in his pockets, slapped on his cap, and turned down the hill towards his village.

She was a good sort, Miss Macaulay. He didn’t like to vex her. Of the five different homes he’d lived in since his mother’s passing, Miss Macaulay baked the best shortbread and gave him the largest portions of fish pie. She said it was so he could grow up big and handsome like his da—the only warm description he’d ever heard of his sire, who was usually mentioned with grim-faced curses—and so in this case, Bastian didn’t mind the comparison.

With his dark hair and golden-brown skin, he didn’t stand out as much as Ma had, but he didn’t match the fair and ginger children who speckled the island like white-fleeced lambs, and he quite liked the notion he might grow up to be thought handsome.

Memories of his ma tugged several different strings within his heart all at once, so Bastian hummed the song she’d taught him before he’d even learned how to read.

The king once built a town so fair,

Red hibiscus lined the square.

Dance a waltz, then dance again.

Down the hill, an empty lane.

Andrew’s spire calls out to thee.

Hear the bells, but do not see .

He scrunched his left eye, trying to remember the next part, and then started the nonsense rhyme over again.

As he neared home, he spied a ship way out in the harbor and peered through his fist like a spyglass, tempted to run along the beach until he could make out the colors of its standard. But cooking smells already assaulted him from every stone house along the lane, so he put exploration momentarily aside, determined to eat his fill before going out again.

When he lifted the latch and opened the door, the first thing Bastian noticed was the fire still banked. No delicious stew simmered on the hob, no bannocks wafted their rich doughy scent to greet him. Miss Macaulay leaned against the cold stove with her arms across her chest while a long-legged man in an expensive dark waistcoat sat at the table in Bastian’s own chair, drinking the medicinal whisky.

For a moment, Bastian stood in the doorway, staring at the adults who stared right back at him, very much wishing he’d taken the time to chase down that ship after all. He’d lived with Miss Macaulay for nearly a year, and in all that time, Bastian had never known male suitors to call on her.

His belly rumbled for a different reason this time. It knew without being told that his days of hearty, loving portions had come to an end.

“Come and say hello to your father, Sebastian,” Miss Macaulay said in Gaelic, with a tremor in her voice instead of the warm, honeyed tone she used when she called him handsome.

“Tell me the boy can speak English,” the man growled.

“Have you forgotten your Gaelic then, Neil?” she spat back in English, with a tone that sounded all wrong coming from her mouth.

Bastian slid his gaze over the stranger and weighed his options, trying not to linger on the man’s hard, cold eyes. He was fast for nine and a half, but the man lounged in his chair like a cat feigning laziness, flicking its tail, ready to spring the moment a mouse ventured out of the shadows.

If he ran, Bastian might stow away on that ship out there in the harbor, but if this man was indeed his wayward sire, then the ship most likely belonged to him. Bastian wanted to ignore the man and race into the protective arms of Miss Macaulay, but her arms were still closed, wrapped protectively around herself instead.

Steeling his courage, Bastian stepped to the man’s side as he was bidden, this figment of so many imaginings, who had always loomed larger than life, now made flesh before him.

The stranger assessed him for a moment and then said, “Well he’s certainly her child. I don’t know if he’s mine.”

“He has your nose and chin.”

The man shrugged. “Get your things,” he said, and took another sip of whisky.

What things? Bastian wondered. Fishing things?

“Cornelius, you can’t mean to take him with you,” Miss Macaulay pleaded.

The stranger slammed his cup down on the table, but his words were the hushed steel of a cutlass being drawn from its sheath. “You wrote you couldn’t keep feeding him.”

“But a ship is no place for a child.”

“What did you expect me to do? Send coin?”

His laugh was laced with anger, and Miss Macaulay’s face crumpled. “You could give up the sea. Come back here, make a life together. You promised me that once.”

The stranger snorted, and tears sprang to Miss Macaulay’s eyes, which she tried to hide by fussing about with a kettle on the cold stove.

“Go and get your things, Sebastian,” she said in a scratchy voice. “I’ll wrap some shortbread and bannocks for your journey.”

Any excitement was tempered by the squirmy feeling in his empty belly, but Bastian gathered his clean sark and breeches into a satchel, along with one clean handkerchief because it would please his gran. With a heavy heart, he emptied his pockets of the laundry peg sailors, keeping just one for himself. Miss Macaulay wouldn’t begrudge him the one, even if his dinner portions had been too large after all.

His mother’s wooden locket already hung from his neck, but he checked to make sure both their likenesses were still safe inside. She smiled out at him, and he smiled back, tucking her safely inside his sark .

Just before leaving, he snatched his granda’s gold-and-black tartan from the bed and crammed it in so the satchel bulged. He might never grow into the plaid, but he couldn’t leave it behind.

Eager to see the ship up close, Bastian followed the silent stranger out of the village and down to the port where awaited as large a two-masted vessel as he’d ever seen. The figurehead was an ugly, scowling youth, its outstretched arm clutching a writhing serpent as blood seemed to drip from the youth’s bared teeth, and Bastian could swear its eyes followed him, even as he stepped aboard Auldfarrand’s Revenge .