the first time he’d ever lain with a woman. Aulay just knew. He was not one to flatter unnecessarily, but he was bedeviled.
As she approached him, her warm blue eyes fixed on his, that strange feeling of intoxication waved through him again. Her cheeks were pinkened from the wind and from her scrambling about, and her hair, Diah, her hair—it was falling wildly about her face in ethereal wisps. She wore a gown of silver silk over a blue petticoat, the stomacher cinched so tightly that it scarcely contained plump breasts.
Beaty pointed at Aulay, apparently incapable of speech, and even Aulay, who had heretofore thought himself inured to the effects of beautiful women after spending his life in so many ports of call, was a wee bit tongue-tied.
“Captain,” she said, and dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you.”
Aulay slipped his hand under her elbow and lifted her up with the vague thought that she ought not to bow to anyone.
The ship pitched a little, and she caught his arm as if to steady herself, her fingers spreading over his coat and squeezing lightly. “You’ve my undying gratitude, you do,” she said. “I donna know what we might have done had you no’ come along to rescue us.” She smiled.
An invisible band tightened around Aulay’s chest and his breathing felt suddenly short. He realized that hers was not a perfect beauty, but taken altogether, she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
“You’d no’ believe what we’ve been made to endure this day,” she said, and pressed that slender, elegant hand to her heart. “On my word, I thought we’d perish. You’ve saved our lives, good sir!”
“Who have I the pleasure of saving, then?” Aulay asked as his gaze traveled over her face, to her décolletage, her trim waist.
“Oh dear me,” she said, and smiled sheepishly as his men closed in around them, straining to hear. “The ordeal has robbed me of my manners, it has. Larson, sir. Lady Larson.”
“Madam,” he said, and bowed his head. “Captain Mackenzie of Balhaire at your service.”
“Balhaire, of course!” she said delightedly. “No’ an angel from heaven then, but the Mackenzies are legend all the same.” She smiled again with sunny gratitude.
Aulay was confused by the notion of being called an angel and the idea she should know his name, but again, he felt strangely and uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
“Did you see them, then?” she asked, pushing more hair from her face. “The pirates?”
Her eyes, one slightly larger than the other, were unusually bright, sparkling like a clear spring day.
“Thieves, they were. They attacked us without reason.” She turned slightly, addressing all the men. “There we were, sailing without a care and getting on verra well, mind, as we’ve little experience at sea. Save our captain, of course,” she said, and gestured to a man with narrow shoulders and hips. He clasped his hands behind him and bowed gallantly. “When suddenly, out of the mist, a much larger ship appeared and was bearing down us.”
“How did they make contact?” Aulay asked curiously.
She turned those shining blue eyes to him again. “With a cannon!” she said dramatically. “We did naugh’ to deserve it! We had scarcely noticed them at all, and then, boom!” She threw her arms wide, and her breasts very nearly lifted from her bodice, and all the men swayed back, as if expecting them to launch. When they didn’t, his men quickly shifted closer.
“My poor father has been badly injured with a wound to his torso,” she added, her smile fading.
“And so have you,” Beaty said, pointing to a rip in the fabric of the skirt of her gown and the bloodstains around it.
She glanced down, to where he pointed. “Oh, aye, indeed. I’d forgotten it in all the confusion.”
“Ought to have a look at it, Miss Livingstone,” said one of her men, who stood somewhere behind the crowd of Aulay’s men. “Gangrene and the like.”
Gangrene. Aulay rolled his eyes.
“Gangrene!” she cried, alarmed.
“I think you need no’ worry of that,” Beaty said, glancing peevishly at whoever had said it.
Lady Larson suddenly leaned down, gathered the hem of her skirt, and lifted it to midcalf.
Aulay’s men surged forward like a wave of cocks and balls, their gazes riveted on her leg, and the little boots and stockings she wore. “I donna see it. I suppose it’s a wee bit higher still,” she said, and much to Aulay’s surprise, she lifted the hem to her knee.
He was completely devoid of thought in that moment. She lifted the gown higher still, past the top of her stocking, so that they could see her bare thigh, the flesh pale white and as smooth as milk. There was indeed a small gash there, but neither very deep or long, and certainly not one that could account for all the blood on her gown.
The lady glanced up at the men, and her gaze settled on Aulay. “Do you think it is verra bad?” she asked prettily, practically inviting him to have a closer look as she thrust her leg forward. “Can any of you see?”
Aulay never had the opportunity to answer. A sudden and loud explosion from the other ship startled them all—at which point, Aulay suddenly recalled that the difference between a bilander and a fly boat was that a bilander generally carried a small gun or two.
Before he could utter a word or a command, he was struck from behind with such force that he was thrown to the deck and his wits were knocked from him. He instantly tried to stand, but the ship felt as if it was spinning, and he couldn’t seem to move his legs properly. He managed to claw his way up to his knees, then looked up, saw the luminescent blue eyes of Lady Larson gazing down at him. She smiled ruefully and said, “I am so verra sorry,” and kicked her knee squarely into his jaw with the strength to send him backward.
Aulay grabbed for the railing to pull himself up. He found his footing, was reaching for her when he was struck on the head once more.
The last thing he could register before everything faded to black was that after all these years, he’d at last been felled at sea. Not by battle or storm, but by a woman.
WHEN THE MARGIT had set sail from the shores of Lismore, it had never occurred to Lottie that a scant two days later, she would have somehow become a pirate—at least that’s what she thought she should be called after what she’d done.
The bedlam had settled, and the Livingstones had won the battle, such that it was. She and her clan had caught the unsuspecting Mackenzies so completely off their guard. What stretched before them now was disaster on a scale so vast, Lottie still couldn’t catch her breath. A sharp pain kept pulsing at her temples as she tried to sort through it all. How in God’s name had they lost one ship and stolen another all in the stretch of a day?
That had most certainly not been the plan.
She gazed down at her wounded father. They’d put him in the captain’s cabin for want of any other suitable place. The forecastle held two Mackenzie men and one Livingstone, all of them injured, but none of them mortally, thank the saints. Morven, the closest thing to healer the Livingstones had, was sure of it.
Her father, however, was not so fortunate. Lottie could scarcely look at his gray pallor without feeling bilious, and even more so when she looked at the blood that soaked the bandages they’d put around the gaping hole in his torso.
He was groaning now, reaching for Lottie’s hand. And everyone else? The men who were still on their feet and crowded around her? They were all offering their varied opinions about what they ought to do, then looking to her to choose. All of them but Gilroy, the captain of the Margit and her father’s friend of more than forty