Page 164 of Tales of Highland Loyalty

Malcolm feared collapsing - or worse - if he was not stopped.

"I said, enough!" James' voice came nearer. The low hum of men behind him fell silent. Malcolm held his breath, wondering how this would end. "I will nae let ye treat the men like this! It is time someone stood up to ye!"

The captain stopped in disbelief. In front of him, James advanced.

Malcolm would never forget it. Out of nowhere, he was there, a cutlass raised to McGivern's throat.

The old man struggled to speak, terror in his bloodshot eyes. Blood trickled from his throat, as the cutlass nicked his skin. For a moment, Malcolm thought James would slit his neck there and then. But in a moment, there was chaos. McGivern swerved, and kicked the first officer hard.

With a moan, he went down, but not before he lost his footing and grip on Malcolm's throat.

It was all the chance that Malcolm needed. In a trice, he was on his feet, punching and kicking the bloodthirsty captain.

And behind them, the crowds roared. In time with the winds, the rest of the charge ran in, fighting until McGivern's men were no more.

"Yer oor new captain, noo," they cried, raising James on their shoulders.

But their new captain was badly injured, and it was on Malcolm's shoulders that the responsibility of fixing the Margret Rose fell. Within days, the ship was sailing, setting course for fresh land.

And with it, a promise. Malcolm would control the men, and help with their exploits, if James took him back to homeland.

Finally, after many years at sea, he had delivered on that. Hugging James, Malcolm's stomach prickled anxiously.

"So then, whit will be the first thing ye do, noo?" James asked, his dark eyes fastening on the approaching harbor.

Malcolm watched the waters as they reflected up the stars.He had long been asking himself this question.

"I will find Bruce," he said, after some thought. James looked at him carefully.

"Yer brother... the one who...?"

"Aye, my brother...," said Malcolm, his green eyes mulling this thoughtfully. "The one who sold me here, aye...."

"So whit yer going to do about it?" James pressed him. He had half an eye on The Ship inn, noisily open for business on the seafront.

"Slit his throat? Cut his head off? Bray him wi' ten ton weight?" James smiled impishly, but Malcolm shook his head. "Nae fash, if ye need a haun, I can assist!"

"Nae any o' that," he said softly. "Just a wee chinwag, between brothers, nae fash.."

Now, looking out at the harbor lights burning in the distance, Malcolm felt a surge of excitement.

Drunken fishermen spilled out in front of them, staggering in between the boats, brawling and braying.

At long last, he had made it.

He was home.

CHAPTER 3

"He's got ye working Sunday?"

Marisse's jaunty voice made its way into the hot and smoky smiddy shop. Putting down the scabbard, Ainslee looked up.

"Marisse!"

Her friend was a welcome distraction. Entering the smiddy shop, Marisse looked about.

At twenty-five years of age, she was a natural beauty; big blue eyes that sparkled from a delicate oval face, framed with a tumultuous crop of white-blonde hair.