Page 6 of The Scot Beds His Wife

Gavin drank deeply, welcoming the burn of the Irishwhiskey Callum favored to ward off the chill seeping in from the sea. He silently thanked the gods that it wasn’t Ravencroft Scotch. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. Returning the flask to the man he’d known since they’d romped about the Highland moors of Wester Ross as wild children, he said, “It occurs to me that to be labeled a black sheep inmyfamily, ye’d ironically have to be a good man.”

“I see no good men here.” A dark, cultured English voice, more menacing than the night surrounding them, hailed over the sound of the lapping water as the tide delivered the boat onto the Sannda Mhòr.

“And ye’ll find none,” Gavin replied.

“This pleases me, as I have no use for them.”

A shadow in a long black coat jumped from the bow with a handful of men, and assisted Gavin and Callum as they dragged the burdened boat farther onto dry sand. That accomplished, they gathered at the fire to conduct their business.

As the son of a notoriously violent man, Gavin had perfected the skills of observation and obfuscation well and early. He could read any man in a matter of seconds. He could tell if they were dangerous, armed, afraid, or compensating, and just how much rope he had to hang himself with. He knew which buttons to press to cause a volcanic eruption, or which levers to pull to release steam and defuse a situation.

As he studied their conclave of criminals, his entire being focused on only one man.

The Rook.

Here stood the kind of chap that sent Gavin’s hand inching toward his dirk. It wasn’t the Rook’s size or height that put him off, as Gavin sensed he easily matched himin strength and stature. Nor was it his menacing scars or the palpable vibrations of danger seeming to throw shadows over the firelight.

It was his eyes. His eerie black eyes.

They were not wild like Callum’s, nor skillfully indolent and impassive, like his own. They conveyed no greed, no rage, no approbation, nor scrutiny. They held neither devilish gleam nor demonic malevolence. And what Gavin could read in the pirate’s eyes had him reassessing his dealings with the man.

Nothing.

They were dead.

Gavin stood convinced they were not the eyes of a man, but a shark.

The Rook was a creature of the sea, after all. A consummate killer known for his powerful, lethal precision and no natural predators. All the armadas of all the governments in the world had tried to best him.

Yet here he was.

Gavin could tell any that stood before him were not men, only meat.

I see who ye are,he thought.I have yer measure. But ye doona see me.

No one did. No one ever saw him. Never knew him. Not his fears or his flaws. His thoughts or his needs. Not his motivations or desires.

And they were legion.

Though the Rook’s empty, unblinking stare disturbed Gavin, his own gaze never wavered. He knew the pirate caught his meaning before any word was exchanged between them.

This is dry land,myland, and ye’re not alpha predator here.

I am.

After a moment spent taking the other’s measure like titans on an ancient Olympian battlefield, the Rook finally addressed him. “The Earl of Thorne, I presume?”

“Aye.” Gavin nodded. “Welcome to Gairloch.”

“You’ve pretty features, for a barbarian lord.”

“I wish I could return the compliment.” Gavin smirked at Callum’s hastily indrawn breath. The Rook was obviously not a vain man, and so this was neither censure nor challenge. It was a language men like him spoke fluently. Quid pro quo.

Gavin wouldn’t have called the pirate unsightly, per se. The strange disfigurement reaching from beneath his collar marred a great deal of the right side of his face, but didn’t hide his strong, broad features bladed by sharper, almost aristocratic lines. The Rook had midnight hair and eyes to match.

In fact, he reminded Gavin of a Mackenzie.

Though where Gavin was handsome, and Callum savage, the Rook was nothing more than arresting. Striking. Remarkably so, and the scars surely added to his menace, and thereby his appeal astheterror of the high seas.