Chapter One
North West Coast of Ireland, 1606
The ship lurched as a large wave caught it broadside, sending Cullen flying against bales of cloth. He tightened his grip on the overhead beam with one hand, and on Elsa’s hip with the other. Another wave hit, sending him surging inside her, and his groans of satisfaction matched those of the creaking timbers of the old sloop. There was something about the rhythmic list and roll of a ship in full sail that made love-making so much sweeter. That was why he had risked a keelhauling to take what Elsa had been offering ever since they departed Scottish shores.
‘My God, that was a big one,’ she cried.
‘I thank you kindly, lass.’
‘I meant the wave, Cullen.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ he laughed, biting her on the neck. Her skin tasted salty, like the sea. It spurred him to greater efforts to please her, and Elsa’s yelping gasps grew more strident with each surge of the ship.
‘Easy lass. We don’t want your father to hear us,’ panted Cullen.
She tightened her thighs around his waist and sank sharp-nailed fingers into his hair. ‘I don’t care if he does, the miserable old grub.’
‘He’ll hang me from the rigging and feed my entrails to the gulls.’
She looked up at Cullen from under her lashes, and her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. ‘I’m worth it, aren’t I?’ she said.
Cullen wasn’t entirely sure she was, but it had been a while, and he had a fearsome need built up inside him.
Elsa pulled him against her. ‘Make me happy, Cullen. Do it. I know you want you. You’ve been slavering over me for weeks now.’
‘Aye, lass. If you insist,’ he murmured, grasping her waist and pulling her hard against him. He kissed her lips tenderly and nuzzled her neck in search of warmth, comfort, he knew not what, but she just gripped him tighter and hissed, ‘Just do it already.’
Cullen did his best to oblige, stifling Elsa’s rising cries with his kisses, struggling to keep his footing in the dank bowels of the ship. She wriggled against his groin, sending warmth and pleasure rushing through his belly. She might not be the bonniest of women, being fleshy and round-faced and with a gap-toothed grin, but she was obligingly loose in her morals and knew her way around a man. In no time at all, Cullen forgot the seething resentment burning a hole in his heart and headed to the blessed relief of fornication.
He was just about to explode his lust inside Elsa when a huge wave hit the hull with a crack that sent them flying back onto the bales with a violent lurch, and then hurtling forwards onto the floor as the ship righted itself.
‘Ow! I think I broke my arm,’ cried Elsa, rocking and cradling her elbow.
Cullen scrabbled to his feet, fearing they were heading for a watery grave. The sea was sloshing in through the hatch overhead. ‘Get up, lass.’
‘I cannot. Oh, God, my arm!’
‘Tis not so bad. A bruise is all.’
When he held out his hand to her, she slapped it away. ‘It hurts like hot irons,’ she wailed.
‘Elsa, is that you, lass? Are you hurt?’ came a gruff voice from above, followed by the clatter of boots on the stairs. ‘We must trim sail. There’s a fearful squall sprung up, fit to blast us into shore.’
‘Your father’s coming. Go to him before he catches us.’
Elsa stared at Cullen dumbly.
‘Lass, I’ve my braies round my knees, and you are half-naked. He’ll take the skin off your back. Go. Now.’
Cullen hauled Elsa to her feet and pushed her towards the doorway as she frantically tried to cover herself. ‘Coming, father,’ she cried, then she turned and glowered. ‘I’m hurt, and you don’t even care. Damn you to hell, Cullen Macaulay, for the pitiless bastard you are.’
She was right. He was a pitiless bastard, and it was not the first time he’d heard a woman say it.
***
Hours later, the ship limped along the shoreline, a damp, sorely-used thing. The Alainn was old and barely sea-worthy, every timber groaning like a miserable crone with age-stiffened bones. The little sloop had narrowly survived the rough crossing to Ireland, and the sudden squall whipped up by the vengeful sea.
Dusk turned the sky a molten red-gold, and a stiff breeze sent clouds scurrying. It was bitter out in the wind, but the heat of Elsa’s glare seared into Cullen’s back. He risked a glance and felt a stab of guilt at the red mark on her elbow, which would soon be a purple bruise. Her arm was far from broken, though, so he shrugged off his guilt. Elsa was a willing partner in their below-decks tryst, and not for the first time. She took her chances, just like he did.
