Free Black Raven's Lady: Highland Lairds Trilogy by Kathleen Harrington
Authors: Kathleen Harrington
fleet.”
Fearchar gave a crack of laughter. Nearly seven-foot tall, he was a giant of a man with a black patch over the eye he’d lost in battle.
He was the only person Raine had ever met who was larger—and possibly even more ferocious—than Keir MacNeil. Like Keir and Macraith, while at sea, Fearchar wore his long hair in a seaman’s pigtail, along with two narrow side-braids fastened with exotic glass beads.
His kinsman, Tam, had the golden hair of the MacLean clan and their tall, athletic frame. “Lady Raine,” Tam said with a warm, almost flirtatious smile. “What a pleasure to see you again. The sea air agrees with you, I see, for you are fairly blooming, with your rosy cheeks and lovely gown.” Unexpectedly, he reached out and released a tendril of her hair that had snagged on her pearl earring.
The next instant, Keir stood beside her, his hand at her elbow. When she glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, she found him in a staring match with Tam. If she didn’t know better, she’d think The MacNeil was jealous.
But in fact, she did know better.
She’d been present when Keir had declared in front of the entire Scottish court that one bonny lass was much the same as another. ’Twas last summer at the royal wedding in Edinburgh—right after he’d offered to marry Lachlan’s pregnant mistress.
At the present moment, the group gathered around Raine looked more like cutthroat pirates than civilized Scotsmen loyal to one another and their king. But she knew they’d mutually pledged their lives and honor to capture and deliver for trial and subsequent hanging every traitor who’d risen up in rebellion against the Crown. And that included the dishonorable coward who’d deserted her pregnant mother—Raine’s natural father, Torcall MacMurchaidh.
T HE VISITORS TOOK over the starboard watch’s mess for the midday meal. ’Twas the only room on the galleon that could accommodate their formidable bulk and give them some elbow room. Even then, the tallest among them couldn’t stand up straight without banging their heads on the low ceiling’s crossbeams.
Seated around the long rectangular table, the six men discussed their war plans while they ate. After the trenchers had been cleared away, Keir spread out a map of the Isle of Lewis.
“The entrance to the harbor is too narrow for us to sail abreast,” he told them, running his fingertip along the waterway shown on the chart. “We’ll have to enter in line formation till we’ve passed Arnish Point.”
“There’ll be guns in position to rake us as we come in,” Fearchar warned. “There’s a cannon emplacement on the point guarding the entrance to the harbor. Three twelve-pounders—iron breech-loaders—with a few men to guard and fire them, if need be. In happier days, Rory and I put in at the Steòrnabhagh shipyard, when the Dragon needed repairs.”
“I’d rather not alert the castle of our coming,” Keir replied. “We’ll have to take them out.”
“Aye,” Macraith agreed with a jerk of his chin. He stroked his beaded beard thoughtfully. “We can take a small landing party the night before and spike any guns on the point.”
Fearchar nodded. “The harbor’s deep. Once past the guns, there’s plenty of room for three galleons to maneuver with ease.”
“The Raven will go first,” Keir said, tapping the map. “Followed by the Hawk and then the Dragon . We’ll take up position for broadsides directly in front of the castle, but well out of their range until we can assess the size of their guns.”
“No bigger than fourteen-pounders, I’m certain,” Fearchar interjected. “And none with swivel mounts.”
Keir returned the giant’s smile of satisfaction. Like Fearchar, Keir loved the thrill of battle. “Amongst the three of us, we’ve the firepower of forty-eight long-range eighteen-pounders, plus the lighter pieces on our bows and sterns. Castle Murchaidh should fall in a matter of days.”
“Who’ll
Fearchar gave a crack of laughter. Nearly seven-foot tall, he was a giant of a man with a black patch over the eye he’d lost in battle.
He was the only person Raine had ever met who was larger—and possibly even more ferocious—than Keir MacNeil. Like Keir and Macraith, while at sea, Fearchar wore his long hair in a seaman’s pigtail, along with two narrow side-braids fastened with exotic glass beads.
His kinsman, Tam, had the golden hair of the MacLean clan and their tall, athletic frame. “Lady Raine,” Tam said with a warm, almost flirtatious smile. “What a pleasure to see you again. The sea air agrees with you, I see, for you are fairly blooming, with your rosy cheeks and lovely gown.” Unexpectedly, he reached out and released a tendril of her hair that had snagged on her pearl earring.
The next instant, Keir stood beside her, his hand at her elbow. When she glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, she found him in a staring match with Tam. If she didn’t know better, she’d think The MacNeil was jealous.
But in fact, she did know better.
She’d been present when Keir had declared in front of the entire Scottish court that one bonny lass was much the same as another. ’Twas last summer at the royal wedding in Edinburgh—right after he’d offered to marry Lachlan’s pregnant mistress.
At the present moment, the group gathered around Raine looked more like cutthroat pirates than civilized Scotsmen loyal to one another and their king. But she knew they’d mutually pledged their lives and honor to capture and deliver for trial and subsequent hanging every traitor who’d risen up in rebellion against the Crown. And that included the dishonorable coward who’d deserted her pregnant mother—Raine’s natural father, Torcall MacMurchaidh.
T HE VISITORS TOOK over the starboard watch’s mess for the midday meal. ’Twas the only room on the galleon that could accommodate their formidable bulk and give them some elbow room. Even then, the tallest among them couldn’t stand up straight without banging their heads on the low ceiling’s crossbeams.
Seated around the long rectangular table, the six men discussed their war plans while they ate. After the trenchers had been cleared away, Keir spread out a map of the Isle of Lewis.
“The entrance to the harbor is too narrow for us to sail abreast,” he told them, running his fingertip along the waterway shown on the chart. “We’ll have to enter in line formation till we’ve passed Arnish Point.”
“There’ll be guns in position to rake us as we come in,” Fearchar warned. “There’s a cannon emplacement on the point guarding the entrance to the harbor. Three twelve-pounders—iron breech-loaders—with a few men to guard and fire them, if need be. In happier days, Rory and I put in at the Steòrnabhagh shipyard, when the Dragon needed repairs.”
“I’d rather not alert the castle of our coming,” Keir replied. “We’ll have to take them out.”
“Aye,” Macraith agreed with a jerk of his chin. He stroked his beaded beard thoughtfully. “We can take a small landing party the night before and spike any guns on the point.”
Fearchar nodded. “The harbor’s deep. Once past the guns, there’s plenty of room for three galleons to maneuver with ease.”
“The Raven will go first,” Keir said, tapping the map. “Followed by the Hawk and then the Dragon . We’ll take up position for broadsides directly in front of the castle, but well out of their range until we can assess the size of their guns.”
“No bigger than fourteen-pounders, I’m certain,” Fearchar interjected. “And none with swivel mounts.”
Keir returned the giant’s smile of satisfaction. Like Fearchar, Keir loved the thrill of battle. “Amongst the three of us, we’ve the firepower of forty-eight long-range eighteen-pounders, plus the lighter pieces on our bows and sterns. Castle Murchaidh should fall in a matter of days.”
“Who’ll