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  SHANNON DRAKE

  “Combining lush historical detail with a strong love story, Drake sweeps readers away with her graceful prose and sizzling sensuality. No wonder she’s a fan favorite.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Queen’s Lady

  “Shannon Drake continues to produce addicting romances.”

  —Publishers Weekly on No Other Woman

  “Drake is an expert storyteller who keeps the reader enthralled with a fast-paced story peopled with wonderful characters.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Reckless

  “Romantic progress and rising suspense keep the book running on all cylinders.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Beguiled

  “Captures readers’ hearts with her own special brand of magic.”

  —Affaire de Coeur on No Other Woman

  “Drake weaves an intricate plot into a delicious romance, which makes for captivating, adventurous and wonderfully wicked reading.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on When We Touch

  Also available from New York Times

  bestselling author

  SHANNON DRAKE

  and HQN Books

  The Queen’s Lady

  Beguiled

  Reckless

  Wicked

  Watch for her next sweeping tale in fall 2009

  SHANNON DRAKE

  THE PIRATE BRIDE

  For Bobbi Smith—

  wonderful writer,

  amazing friend.

  THE PIRATE BRIDE

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PROLOGUE

  Victory and Defeat

  The West Coast of Scotland

  1689

  “THE CHILD! For the love of God, Fiona, you must save the child.”

  The wind was stark and cold. Fiona’s vision blurred, and she could do nothing but feel, and what she felt was a cold wind blowing. All her life, she had loved her home. The rich colors of the braes, the hard rock of the cliffs and crags, and aye, even the wicked cold and bitter wind that came with winter. Despite the chill, a day such as today often meant the coming of the spring, when the earth would burst forth with a wild beauty that was beloved by those who knew it and held in awe by those who did not. Aye, good God, but she loved her home, all the brilliant blues and mauves of spring, and the rich greens of summer…even the gray of an angry and overcast winter’s day.

  All swept away now.

  By the bloodred spill of life that had been the final result of William III’s so called “glorious revolution.”

  “Fiona!” She felt her husband’s hands on her shoulders, shaking her. She opened her eyes and stared into his, and she knew then that she would never see him again. They were to pay. The Highland Scots were to pay for their opposition to William, for their loyalty to the legal king, James II. Catholic or no, by God’s right, he should be king. And the Highlanders had proven their mettle—as they had so many times before—but it had been in vain, and now they were to be thrashed ruthlessly and without mercy in return.

  “Ye’ve got to go now, my love. I’ll be with you soon enough, I’ll warrant,” Mal told her, his eyes shifting from hers as he smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

  “Ye’ll not see me again,” she whispered. At first she didn’t feel the pain of that realization, only the whipping of the wind. But then she saw the endless blue of his eyes, the rich waves of his nearly midnight hair and the rugged planes of his face. His mouth was broad, his lips generous. She thought of his smile, of his kiss.

  And suddenly the pain was like a knife ripping through her. She cried out and fell to her knees, and he quickly knelt down beside her, ignoring the men who awaited him, both his cavalry and his foot soldiers. It was not so regimented an army as the one that came after them, or the one they had so recently and brilliantly beaten with skill and daring. They were Highlanders, clansmen, and aye, they could feud, but when they fought together, it was as brothers. Still, they had their own minds and did not always need orders. But they had their hearts and souls when their weapons were poor. They would die for one another, in a bond not often found in the paid ranks of the enemy’s army.

  “Fiona, come.” He reached out to help her to her feet. She saw his hands as they took her own, and they were wonderful hands, strong, long-fingered, capable of holding her with passion and a child with tenderness. She was suddenly terrified that she would shame him by screaming hysterically at the knowledge that he was going to die. And his death would be a crime against God, against nature, for he was a beautiful man in his strength and wisdom, not only in his flesh, and in the love he felt for the land and their God and all those who lived in their small corner of the world.

  “The child, Fiona. You must protect the child.”

  She staggered to her feet, trying to see despite the curtain of her tears. She stood tall and reached a hand to the child standing near, wide-eyed, afraid, and yet so sadly old before time could make the years go by.

  Mal suddenly bowed his head, perhaps to fight the dead light of destiny in his own eyes, then clasped his offspring, shaking.

  Then he straightened and planted a last, fiercely sweet kiss upon her lips. “Gordon, take my lady and my child, and see them safe.”

  Malcolm turned then, taking his horse from one of his men, a distant cousin, as were so many. Gordon’s hand fell upon her shoulders. “To the tender, my lady, swiftly now.”

  She was blinded. It was the wind, she told herself, but she knew it was the tears that streamed down her face, unheeded. As they raced to the shore, she wiped her cheeks and turned, lifting her babe, looking back one last time on the man she so loved.

  Laird Malcolm, kilted and magnificent, sat upon his great charger, shouting to the men around him. And from the shore she could see the valiant charge of the Scots as they raced up the hill, their battle cry upon their lips.

  They would die well.

  They would not be dragged to the gallows and mocked as they died. Warriors all, they would battle their enemies to the death. Mal had claimed they would triumph, as they had done before, but she knew of a certainty that this time courage would not be enough.

  In her arms, her young one squirmed. Ah, but so strong and tall already! “Me da!”

  “Aye, Father goes to battle,” she murmured.

  Then, high atop the hill, she saw the enemy.

  They came in one great mass. Thousands…and thousands…

  She turned, tall, straight, no tears flowing down her cheeks now. With Gordon helping her along, she hurried to the water, where the tender waited. An oarsman, cloaked, his head down, sat ready.

  “Hurry, man, hurry!” Gordon cried. “Ye must get her to the ship.”

  The oarsman rose and cast back his hood, and she looked in the man’s eyes. Her heart leapt to her throat as she saw his face.

  “Nay, I shall not,” the oarsman said.

  Gordon drew his sword, but the oarsman was ready. As fine and experienced a warrior as Gordon, his hand was already at the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak, and when he lifted his blade, it was to slice Gordon through.

  She no longer felt or heard the wind. Her vi
sion was clear now, and all she saw was red. A sea of it before her…

  Madness struck her then. She reached for the dirk in the sheath at her waist, and she attacked.

  The oarsman screamed in pain and rage, and responded instantly.

  Fiona never felt the steel as it ripped into her. She heard her heart, though. Thumping, erratic and fast, pumping out her life’s blood….

  Her heart cried out. Malcolm, my love, it seems that in truth we do not part after all today, for there is a heaven for those who have been just and strong….

  “Mother!”

  Her child! Her precious child! She tried to cry out, but she had no breath.

  As she lay dying, she heard his laughter.

  And then there was screaming. But the sound did not come from her. As the world faded, she was dimly aware that the oarsman was pushing off from shore, and her child, still so young, yet old enough to see, to know what was happening, was being swept away by sheer evil.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Caribbean

  Pirates’ Alley

  1716

  “OUTGUNNED, OUTSAILED, outmanned, out…blasted! Damn it all! Bring her about and set to speed. Full sail,” Logan Haggerty cried, teeth grating, eyes narrowed, fury all but blinding him as he stared at the pirate ship headed his way.

  “Captain, we are at full sail, and blimey, we’re tryin’ to come about,” Logan’s first mate, Jamie McDougall assured him. Jamie was an old salt, an honest merchantman impressed into the navy, he’d moved on to piracy and then been pardoned back into the King’s own service. If there were a trick to be played upon the brine, Jamie knew it.

  If there were a way to outrun a pirate, Jamie knew that, too.

  If they were sunk through the greed and egotism of the aristocracy, well, Jamie would know that, as well.

  Logan had informed the duke that there were pirates in the area and explained his own disadvantage due to the lack of manpower he had aboard, should they be boarded. He had explained, as well, that the weight of their cargo would drastically affect their speed and maneuverability.

  But the duke hadn’t cared.

  Logan had ten guns.

  The pirate had twenty he could easily count, perhaps more, and Logan’s spyglass assured him that the crew upon the pirate vessel numbered at least two dozen men.

  He traveled with a crew of twelve.

  The vessel bearing down on them, sporting a scarlet flag, was handsome indeed. She was a sloop, sleek and fast, riding across the waves as smoothly as if she were soaring through the air. She had a narrow draft, and would easily be able to escape larger ships in the shallows. The craft was well-fitted, he could see. Besides the larger cannon pointing their way, he could see that the upper deck was fitted with a row of swivel guns, and those with many barrels.

  She was a beauty and had been altered for her life of crime. Three masts, when many sloops offered but the mainmast, and with sails that caught the slightest breeze. Her tenders were situated behind the swivel guns, allowing no space for weakness. She was small, sleek and strong.

  He had known better than to enter pirate territory, but pride had been his downfall.

  Ah, yes, his own pride, even more than that of the nobility he mocked, who had tempted him into daring this voyage despite his original vehement refusal to accept the assignment.

  And how had the duke managed that? Logan mocked himself then. Why, because of Cassandra.

  Sweet Cassandra. He had been sure he could win her love if he just had enough money. His bloodline was noble enough, but his circumstances were far too impoverished to secure her to him. But if he made a success of this mission, he could return triumphant and regain all that his family had lost. No, that had been stolen from them. If he could challenge the sea and make this voyage, he would be worthy. She was the prize that mattered if he succeeded in this breakneck dash to bring the gold of the temple of Asiopia to the colonists in Virginia.

  Now he realized that he had been a fool indeed. And why? What was it about the woman that had so beguiled him that he would attempt such a reckless endeavor? He had spent his life knowing he must make his own way, and he had known both harlots and great ladies. He had shown them courtesy one and all, but never had he felt such a tug upon his feelings, or this desire to settle down. It wasn’t that she was a tease or temptress, that she made demands or ever threatened to play false. It was the laughter in her flashing, quicksilver eyes, the gentle touch of her fingertips, and, most of all, the honesty in her every word and action. He could love her; really love her. There was more, as well, of course, which he could admit in his own heart. She would be the perfect mate for him. She was the only child of a respected and wealthy family. With her name joined to his, he could reclaim all that had once been his family’s, rebuild the Haggerty fortune. She was everything he could have hoped for in his life’s partner.

  He could not blame her for his own willingness to take this risk. He did not even blame her father, who merely wanted security for his only child.

  If there was any blame, it fell only upon his own shoulders.

  A mocking inner voice taunted him for a liar and a fraud.

  He had said that he sailed because he needed the money, but that wasn’t wholly true. He was always eager to sail the seas. Eager to find one man.

  And that man lived upon the seas, outside the law.

  Logan even claimed that he sought justice, not revenge, though were he honest with himself, he would have to concede that vengeance, too, was in his mind and heart.

  He should have carried more guns, he told himself now. He should have brought more men, but he needed men he trusted for the battle he hoped to engage, and such men were hard to find.

  Still, if there was any blame for his current predicament, it was his.

  These were dangerous times to sail the seas. When England and Holland had been at war with Spain and France, many so-called pirates saw themselves as fighting a righteous battle. In an English ship, he would have been at the mercy only of a French or Spanish ship. But when the combatants had come to terms in 1697, privateers littered the sea.

  Many had nothing to go home to.

  Many had no desire to go home. Waging war upon the sea had become a way of life.

  And many others saw that a fortune might be won if a man were brave, reckless and ready to risk his life.

  Never before had the Caribbean been so overrun with thieves.

  He rued fate and the wretched, greedy men who had lured him to go against his better judgment.

  Damn them, he thought.

  No.

  Damn himself.

  A man could not be led to such a place unless he chose his course.

  So much for common sense and strength of purpose. He had fallen. And his own reckless desires had damned these good men along with him.

  Here on the waves of the Caribbean, he would be the death of them all. They couldn’t outrun the pirate ship, and they sure as hell weren’t going to bring it down. He wasn’t a coward, but neither was he a fool. Lust and greed were about to kill him and, worse, all these good men.

  “M’lord Captain?” Jamie asked. “What is your command?”

  “We must rely upon this pirate’s honor,” Logan said, knowing he must sacrifice pride for the sake of his men’s lives.

  “What?” Jamie demanded. “Pirates have no honor.”

  “Aye, they do. More than many a supposed great man,” Logan said. “Send up the flag. Demand parley. I will negotiate with her captain.”

  “Negotiate?” Jamie protested. “There can be no negotiation—”

  “If not, we are dead men. Bring our flag to half-mast. I will deal our way out of this,” Logan said.

  “Deal with a pirate captain? He’ll skewer you through.”

  “Not if he wishes to keep the respect of his men,” Logan assured him. “For the love of God, man, we are running out of time. Do as I say.”

  Despite Jamie’s protest and the wary looks upon the face
s of his men, in twenty minutes time they were broadside the pirate and not a cannon had been fired. Logan stood with his men, staring across at the handsome rigging of the pirate ship, while the crew of privateers stared at them, grinning, totally aware that they had the upper hand.

  Grappling hooks and strong rope bound them as tightly together as lovers locked in an intimate embrace.

  “Your captain, my fine fellows!” Logan shouted. “Where is your captain? I demand to see your captain.”

  “You demand?” one peg-legged man jeered.

  “Indeed. It is my right to demand negotiation, not even though you be pirates but because you be pirates. If you refuse me, you are cursed and damned, and well you know it.”

  He had counted on the superstitious bent of sailing men, and he had not been mistaken. The surly crew muttered softly and looked uncertainly from one to another.

  Then, through the crowd upon the deck, strode the captain, a slender young man, clean-shaven, with rich dark hair curled beneath a broad-brimmed feathered hat. His coat was red velvet, and beneath it, his shirt was white as snow. He was tall with features that belonged on a Greek statue rather than a rogue at sea. He wore great black cuffed boots, and despite the elegance of his countenance, he walked with assurance, and the pistols and knife sheathed at his broad belt meant business, as did the long sword that hung by his side.

  “Good heavens, men, don’t let this gentleman disarm you so quickly. He is cleverly attempting to save his own hide,” the pirate captain chided, stepping forward. “But not even because it is his supposed right to negotiate, but because he deems himself so clever, I am willing to take the time to have a word with the man.”

  “Whatever your reason, I appreciate it, good Captain…?” Logan said, waiting for a name.

  “My flag tells it all,” the captain said. “I’m known as Red Robert.”