The Red Drifter of the Sea: A Steamy Opposites Attract Pirate Romance (Pirates of the Isles Book 3) Read online

  The Red Drifter of the Sea

  Pirates of the Isles Book Three

  Celeste Barclay

  The Red Drifter of the Sea Copyright © 2020 by Celeste Barclay. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Teresa Spreckelmeyer, The Midnight Muse

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Celeste Barclay

  Visit my website at www.celestebarclay.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: November 2020

  Celeste Barclay

  Kindle Digital Edition

  Paperback ISBN 13 979-85555761-3-2

  To all who sail away on this adventure with me, I wish you fair winds and following seas.

  Happy reading, y'all,

  Celeste

  Pirates of the Isles

  The Blond Devil of the Sea

  The Dark Heart of the Sea

  The Red Drifter of the Sea

  The Scarlet Blade of the Sea (Coming Spring 2021)

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading The Red Drifter of the Sea

  Pirates of the Isles

  The Highland Ladies

  The Clan Sinclair

  Viking Glory

  One

  Moira MacDonnell peered around the narrow staircase leading from the family chambers into the Great Hall. Her gritted teeth felt as if they would surely crack, and she suspected deep grooves were forming around her lips from pursing them in disgust so often. She observed her brother Dónal, the MacDonnell chieftain, dribbling grease onto his sleeve before taking a healthy draught of Scottish whisky. Her gaze shifted to her sister Lizzie.

  “Shameless trollop,” Moira muttered as Lizzie slid her hand between her body and Aidan O’Flaherty’s to cup his groin. In turn, Aidan pinched Lizzie’s nipple, eliciting a deep moan from the willowy blonde. Moira swept her gaze across the diners in the Great Hall, but as usual, no one paid attention to the antics of those seated on the dais. Moira’s nephew Sean darted across the hall, followed by his friends and his ever-loyal Irish wolfhound. She snapped her gaze back to Lizzie and Aidan, Sean’s parents, but they were oblivious to their son as he ran wild. Aidan was in port for a few days and spent more time dropping anchor in Lizzie than being a father to Sean. Lizzie was little better as a parent, having ignored Sean for most of his life, except for when Ruairí MacNeil had visited.

  A smug smile pulled at Moira’s lips as she recalled the last time the Dark Heart appeared at Dunluce. Despite being a year ago, the memory of his visit burned bright in Moira’s mind. Ruairí arrived with his wife Senga on his arm, and Lizzie made the dreadful mistake of trying to—as before—pass Sean off as Ruairí’s son. She compounded her error by trying to seduce him in front of Senga. The pirate queen nearly gutted Lizzie before the entire clan, yet not one person flinched. Manipulative as the serpent in the Garden of Eden, Lizzie had sworn since before Sean was born that Ruairí was the boy’s father. Everyone who could count to nine knew it wasn’t possible, since Ruairí had been nowhere near Ireland, let alone Dunluce, when Lizzie conceived Sean.

  She must think we’re a right daft lot. As though none of us knew the moment the lad was born that he’s Aidan’s. The lad has his father’s black hair, not Ruairí’s blond.

  It was Senga who forced Lizzie to finally admit that Aidan was the then-five-year-old Sean’s father. Since then, neither Lizzie nor Aidan—who had never been discreet—made any attempt to hide their liaison. But neither did they intend to wed. With no heirs of his own, it forced Dónal to acknowledge Sean as the next MacDonnell chieftain, despite the boy’s bastardry.

  I will bear no man a bastard. I’d have to be coupling to do that, and since that isn’t in my future, I suppose I have nothing to worry about. Selfish pile of shite. Pay a bluidy decent dowry if you want me off your hands, Dónal. But then who would run this pile of cracked bricks and rotting mortar? Sure as bluidy hell won’t be Lizzie.

  “Moira!” Dónal bellowed before belching. “Where the devil are you, you worthless wench?” Dónal may have muttered the last words, but Moira knew plenty of people heard. She doubted any of them cared. They were far too used to Dónal’s domineering attitude toward her. Dónal didn’t care what Lizzie did, as long as the men she bedded brought more trade to clan MacDonnell. That had been the entire point of trying to lay a trap for Ruairí.

  Moira slipped from behind the staircase and entered the Great Hall. She wasn’t certain if Dónal’s grimace was from indigestion or disgust at seeing her. She assumed it was both. They had never gotten along, even as young children. Lizzie and Dónal were cut from the same jib: their father’s. Moira didn’t resemble either of her siblings; she was the spitting image of their mother. She was diminutive in stature and looked years younger than twenty-two. Her light brown hair felt dull and dreary when she looked at her siblings’ thick flaxen locks. Despite being unwed, she wore her hair up since she spent most of her days toiling alongside the servants.

  Preparing herself for her brother, she blew a puff of air before plastering a shy smile she didn’t feel at all. She clasped her hands before her as she came to stand in front of the dais.

  “Where is the rest of the meal?” Dónal demanded as he belched again.

  I think you’ve eaten most of the meal already. I’m surprised no one’s lost a finger from you s
natching the food away.

  “The last dish was already served, Chieftain,” Moira forced herself to address her brother by his title, even though no one who sat at the dais did. He insisted upon it. She twisted away as a bone flew in her direction.

  “This slop was barely edible, and now you tell me there is nothing more?” Dónal roared.

  If it’s such slop, then why would you want more?

  Moira forced herself to keep her expression neutral. Years of practice taught her that any reaction would end poorly for her.

  “I will see what I can find, Chieftain.” Moira kept her answer succinct, dipping her head before turning toward the kitchen. She would never understand how a corpulent man like her brother could move so quickly. His chair flew backwards, and he met her at the bottom of the dais steps as she passed by. He grabbed Moira’s upper arm, his stubby fingers biting into the flesh. Moira darted a quick glance over Dónal’s shoulder and found Aidan watching, but she knew the man would never speak on her behalf. He never had. Instead, he reached for his mug and drank, keeping his eye on the chieftain and sister until Lizzie’s roaming hand once more found his rod.

  “See what you can find? See what you can find?” Dónal spluttered. “I expect three more courses served, back to back.”

  “The servants already served five, Dónal,” Moira hissed, her voice low so only her brother would hear. She would appease him when others could hear, but she wouldn’t when they spoke in private. “There is nothing else prepared. You’ve eaten it all.”

  Dónal shook her, but Moira stood firm. She’d learned to steel herself against Dónal’s fits of temper. He often attempted to intimidate her with his substantial height and girth. The clan council had drawn the line two years ago when Dónal threatened to drive his fist into Moira’s cheek for spilling wine on him while she trembled with fever. She recognized she lacked the size or the training to fight back physically, but she found inconspicuous ways to retaliate. Small things like pulling out chairs in his solar that she knew he would stumble over in his drunken stupors. She placed ants on his pillow and mused that it was the leftover mead at his bedside that must have drawn them. She’d even gone so far as to dip the hems of his breeks in beef fat, leading the keep’s hounds to knock him over and bite his ankles.

  “You stupid sow. No wonder no man will take you off my hands. You haven’t the sense of a gnat and can’t run a keep to save your life,” Dónal snarled before shoving Moira. Despite her tiny size, especially when compared to Dónal, she had the sea legs of an old sailor. After years of Dónal’s tyranny, she no longer swayed and was able to stand her ground. She didn’t bother to hide her mutinous glare as she notched up her chin before staring at the clan council members who sat at the table Dónal abandoned. Her silent defiance dared him to lash out further, even in front of the men who could strip him of his seat as chieftain.

  “Get out of my sight,” Dónal spat. Moira was only too happy to comply. Without a second look, Moira glided toward the staircase. She might not have the lithe figure that Lizzie had even after bearing a child, but their mother drilled the same grace in Moira’s movements as she had Lizzie’s.

  “Moira,” Lizzie called. “Don’t forget to take Sean.”

  Moira adored her nephew, but Lizzie knew it was salt in an open wound: of the two of them, Moira was the one who wanted children. But it was unlikely that she would ever have them, since Dónal was too stingy to pay an adequate dowry. Lizzie had flown into a rage to rival an angry sea god’s when baby Sean called Moira “mama.” The aching pain had come with a sense of satisfaction as Moira bounced Sean on her hip. She’d shrugged at Lizzie and taken Sean to lie down for a nap. Just as she had done nearly every night of his life, Moira helped Sean prepare for bed, then laid on the trundle bed in his chamber. He’d had night terrors for years, and Moira didn’t remember the last time she’d slept a full night in her own chamber. She now went to the trundle bed by habit.

  One day. One day when I’m certain Sean is cared for, I will be done. I will leave and not look back. Well, mayhap one glance if I can see Sean. But then, never again. Moira’s eyes drifted closed as she drifted off.

  Two

  “I don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss,” Lizzie whined the next evening as she ran her hand over Aidan’s chest, pressing her breasts to his body.

  “I’m making a fuss because the agreement is that you bed no one but me when I’m here,” Aidan pushed Lizzie away. “I don’t try to control you when I’m gone, but our arrangement will end faster than you can drop your skirts if you tup another man while I’m in port, Lizzie.”

  “But I had to,” Lizzie pleaded, as Aidan scoffed. “Dónal wants to know O’Malley’s secrets, so he can better negotiate. What other woman is going to get that information? Moira? She could stand naked, coated in honey, and no man would offer her information in exchange for a roll.”

  “So you came to your brother’s aid by rolling around with the messenger,” Aidan snapped.

  “What do you care? You abandon me here as easy as you please,” Lizzie whined.

  “Mayhap I picked the wrong—” Aidan’s voice came out smothered as Lizzie covered his mouth with hers. “—after all.”

  Moira watched in disgust as the couple reconciled with a kiss, Aidan’s groping hands settling on Lizzie’s backside. She wondered why, after all these years, anything the couple did or said surprised her. It was as if she watched a stranger’s horrible accident. She didn’t care for the people, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Turning to the serving women, she nodded and walked toward the dais while the others brought food to the lower tables. The platter she herself carried threatened to slosh over the sides as the roasted duck bathed in cream sauce slid back and forth.

  As she rounded the table closest to the dais, she watched in horror as Dónal glanced at the hounds begging below the raised table, then threw a leg of pork at her. The three massive wolfhounds stood above her waist when they were on all fours; standing on their hind legs they were nearly a foot taller than her. The animals plowed into her, vying for the meat laying at her feet. But unlike when Dónal tried to push her over, she couldn’t withstand the impact of the three dogs. The sauce from the platter poured down her front as her feet came out from under her. She tried to keep her balance, but her heel landed on a dog’s paw, making him headbutt her in the back. She pitched forward, and the roast skidded across the floor and with it the dogs’ attention. She landed hard, bashing her chin on the floor and knocking the wind from her lungs.

  “Aunty Moira!” Sean yelled as he rushed forward. Moira pushed herself onto her hands before manly palms grasped her around her ribs. She looked over her shoulder as Aidan settled her on her feet.

  “Are you hurt?” Aidan whispered.

  “No more than in the past,” Moira muttered as she pulled away from him and brushed rushes and crumbs from her kirtle. She sighed before looking back at Aidan. “Thank you.”

  “Clumsy wench,” Dónal mocked.

  “Aunty Moira,” Sean slipped his hand into hers and looked up at her. She tried to smile at the child, but she’d bitten her tongue hard, and her chin burned. She wanted to rub it, but she wouldn’t give Dónal the satisfaction. She sensed more than saw Aidan step away before he returned to his seat beneath Lizzie. “Your chin is bleeding,” Sean whispered.

  Moira looked down at Sean and felt a drop of blood land on her chest. She glanced at it and sighed. She was filthy and had a gash on her chin to match her humiliation. Until it healed, it would remind everyone of her ungainly performance before them and, worse, the clan’s guest.

  “No wonder the O’Malley demands such a high dowry,” Lizzie chortled. “He knows he’ll be replacing everything in sight once you plow through it.”

  Moira froze as the blood leached from her face. She doubted her heart still beat in her chest, and it was only Sean’s hand in hers that let her know she hadn’t gone numb. She turned to look at Dónal, then cast her gaze at the O’Ma
lley messenger who shifted in his seat, attempting not to look at her. She’d wondered why the man ate at their table, since the O’Malleys and MacDonnells were on hostile terms. Now she understood. Dónal intended to fob her off on Dermot O’Malley, a man old enough to be her father. The last sliver of hope that she might one day make a love match like Ruairí and Senga’s vanished in a breath.

  “Perhaps he knows I’m worth more than my used-up older sister,” Moira spat. “You should wed first, but no one’s beating down our doors for your hand, either. You can’t even get the man who sired your son to stay with you for more than a sennight at a time. You’re no more than a free whore to any man Dónal sends you to.”

  Moira clamped her mouth shut, remembering far too late that Sean stood beside her. She squeezed his hand, but his fingers flexed. She released him, expecting him to run away, but he remained at her side. Lizzie darted from the dais and yanked Sean behind her before she lashed out and slapped Moira.