When the Laird Returns Page 25
When Brian only glanced at her, Iseabal snapped her fingers in a rude gesture, impatient for the gun. Grudgingly, he handed it to her, perhaps knowing that she had gone beyond morality and good judgment.
The pistol was heavier than she expected. Using two hands, she leveled the barrel at the stubborn sailor.
“Show me how to shoot it,” she said. Brian whispered to her of powder pans and tinder. The barrel wavered, then steadied as she began to follow his instructions.
“It’s just a group of Scots,” the man said, backing away. “Wanting to make another start for themselves somewhere new.”
Iseabal followed the sailor with the barrel.
“Did they come of their own accord?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, evidently beginning to understand that she had no hesitation in using the weapon. Stepping back against the rail, he gestured with one hand toward the hold. “Look for yourself.”
“We shall,” Iseabal said, giving the pistol to one of the sailors from the Fortitude. “Shoot him if he moves,” she ordered. Apparently, there was something of Magnus Drummond in her after all, enough cruelty to render her dangerous.
Brian climbed down the ladder first, Iseabal following. The hold of the ship was a dark and dank place, but it didn’t take long for them to realize that it was also full. Not with barrels of provisions or crates of marketable goods, but with a living cargo, people huddling together against the curve of the hull.
“I’ll go fetch a lantern,” Brian said, the horror in his voice a mirror of her own thoughts.
“We mean you no harm,” Iseabal said in his absence. Not one voice answered her, as if they knew she was the daughter of the man who’d ordered this done to them.
Brian returned, lifting a lantern. The faint light barely penetrated the shadows of the hold, but gave enough illumination to view the faces of the people staring back at her. A white-faced woman held her infant to her chest while her husband sat beside her, one arm around her shoulders, the other pulling an older child back as if to shield the boy.
Children sobbed, frightened, while the adults stared up at Iseabal with dispassionate eyes devoid of hope.
Brian walked ahead, making his way to the end of the hold, lantern held high.
“We’re looking for a man,” she said. “A man named Alisdair MacRae. He might have aided you yesterday. Have you seen him?”
Again only silence answered her.
“Here,” Brian called out, raising his arm as he knelt beside a figure.
Iseabal felt as if her heart stopped, then started again. For a moment she couldn’t move; then hope surged through her like Gilmuir’s fierce winds.
Carefully avoiding outstretched arms and extended legs, Iseabal made her way to Brian’s side. For a moment she didn’t recognize Alisdair, he was so covered in blood. She knelt beside him, placing one hand against his shirt. Staring at his bloody face and matted hair, she would have thought him dead except for the rise and fall of his chest beneath her palm.
A child whimpered and she heard the sound from a distance. A man spoke and she noted his voice but not his words. The edges of her vision went gray as her eyes filmed with tears.
Something broke within her. The wall of her courage, quickly erected, was no defense against this abrupt, poignant joy. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, bathing her face in a baptism of gratitude.
“Alisdair,” she whispered, his name sounding like a prayer in this dimly lit hell.
Brian handed her the lantern, moving to place his arms around Alisdair’s shoulders.
“He’s been in and out,” a man lying at his side said. “We half dragged him here,” he added, leaning back against the curved timbers.
“Who did this to him?” Brian asked, kneeling at Alisdair’s side.
“My father,” Iseabal said, feeling a strange sense of desolation as she spoke. The confession seemed to alter Brian. His shoulders stiffened and his wary gaze was fixed on her as if she were a stranger.
“Your father?” he asked tightly.
“Magnus Drummond,” she admitted, fingering the placket of Alisdair’s shirt.
“I’ll go and fetch the other men,” Brian said, lowering Alisdair carefully to the floor of the hold.
She watched him leave, heard the murmurs as people began looking in her direction. Her identity spread among those huddled in the hold, repeated until it was a dark whisper.
Iseabal had never felt so hated.
She wanted to explain to them, to offer excuses not for her father’s behavior, but for her own. For not knowing the depth of his perfidy, for not suspecting that he would be capable of imprisoning children, of selling whole families into slavery.
A little girl smiled, unaware of the hatred directed Iseabal’s way. The mother grabbed her daughter, cradling the child, a gesture of repudiation as telling as a slap.
Alisdair moaned, and Iseabal leaned forward, moving her hand from his face to gently touch his bloodied cheek.
He opened his eyes, wincing at the glare from the lantern.
“It’s all right. We’ll soon have you out of here.”
After that? Iseabal realized she didn’t know.
A litter, little more than a bit of canvas tied between two ropes, was devised to raise Alisdair from the hold. As the sailors from the Fortitude carefully lifted him, Iseabal looked down into the shadowed interior, gloomy even in the bright noon sun, and realized that she could not leave the others behind.
“How much did you pay Drummond for those people?” she asked the first mate.
“You’ll have to talk to the captain about that,” he said, surly now that she had no pistol aimed at him.
Nodding, she motioned for the others to follow. Once off the ship, Iseabal turned to Brian. “Find the captain and pay him whatever he wants for his cargo,” she said. “We’ll take those poor people back to Gilmuir with us.”
He merely nodded in return, leaving her side as if he could not wait to be gone from her.
Fergus MacRae was determined that this would be the last of it. Smith or no, he’d find another way to make a living besides placing chains on his countrymen.
Reluctantly, he made his way to his ship and his new commission, passing a littered figure carried by two men. A woman walked at their side, her face wet with tears.
Turning, Fergus glanced after them, uncertain as to what he had truly seen. The recognition had been instant, but he had to be mistaken.
He began to follow them, coming abreast of the litter once again. Staring at the woman, Fergus felt as if he were in the midst of a dream. She bore the same features as the woman he loved, and the same shade of hair. This stranger might well have been his Leah at the time of their parting years ago.
A young man grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Why are you following them?” he asked.
Fergus brushed him off easily, regarding the man with all the harshness of thirty years of unrequited dreams.
“Who is she?” he asked curtly. The woman had had the face of his beloved. Leah, of the subtle smiles and the gentle heart.
“Who would you be and why would you be wanting to know?”
“I know her,” Fergus said, then realized how foolish that was. Of course he didn’t know her. She was too young to be Leah. “Who is she?” he asked again, unwilling to give this man the secret of his heart.
“A Drummond,” the younger man said curtly. “Married to a MacRae of Gilmuir.”
“There are no MacRaes at Gilmuir.”
“There are now, despite Magnus Drummond’s efforts.” The other man turned and strode away in the opposite direction, leaving Fergus staring after him.
Chapter 29
A lisdair was carried aboard the Fortitude, the crew left aboard ship moving to the rail to greet him. A flag was quickly raised to alert the crew members searching the other ships in the harbor. Men began racing back, the sound of their boots on the wooden pier like the far-off rumbling of thunde
r.
One by one, each man fell silent, noting the captain’s condition. Iseabal walked beside Alisdair, her hand resting close enough that her fingers felt the warmth of his body. Proof that he still lived.
A funereal silence followed them as they moved across the deck. More than one man took off his cap, clutching it in his hands. Iseabal stopped, spoke to a man she recognized.
“Brian will be coming shortly,” she said, willing her voice to remain even. “We’re bringing the rest of villagers home with us.” Speech had flown from her, those two clipped sentences the extent of her ability to communicate.
Her father had done this to Alisdair. She was ashamed of her birth, in a way she’d never before felt. Drummond’s blood flowed in her veins. His capacity for cruelty lurked in her very nature, and because of her father’s actions, she’d almost lost the man she loved.
“I’ll tell the others,” he said, his voice sounding too kind. She didn’t think she could bear kindness at the moment.
Rory stood at the doorway to Alisdair’s cabin, holding the door open wordlessly. The room was shrouded in silence and darkness, neither of which was comforting. Not once in all those times climbing the rigging had she seen the cabin boy afraid. But now he looked frightened and incredibly young.
“His wounds need to be treated,” she said as the sailors brought Alisdair into the cabin. “Will you help me?”
Rory nodded, his gaze still fixed on his captain. As the sailors began to move him to the bunk, Alisdair groaned. Entering the cabin, Iseabal stood behind the men, wishing that she could ease any pain he might be feeling.
Finally, he was placed on the bed, the white sheets a stark contrast to his bloodied face.
She nodded her thanks to the sailors, knelt beside Alisdair, and impatiently brushed her tears away. Her weeping would do Alisdair no good and could not ease the situation.
Glancing behind her, Iseabal realized that Rory had left. Just beyond the open door, however, the crewmen were gathering in silence.
Iseabal went to Alisdair’s chest, removing the Chinese jars. From the third door she retrieved the poppy juice and put all three containers on the floor in front of the bunk. Another drawer yielded a stack of toweling, that she began to tear into squares.
Rory entered the room a few moments later bearing a ewer filled with warm water, carefully placing it on the floor next to the jars. Standing, he manfully waited for his next order.
What needed to be done? Each man’s gaze was directed either to Alisdair or to her. And she, the one they looked to with such hope in their eyes, was filled with mind-numbing fear. If she were capable of giving them a miracle, she’d say another prayer and Alisdair would sit up, rub his palms over his face, and smile with his usual morning greeting. But he remained motionless on the bunk, so still and quiet that his pose mimicked death.
“He needs to be undressed,” she said, considering her words. “So that we can check for other injuries. If you will remove his clothing, then I shall see to the wound on his head.”
A plan, then. Something to keep her mind and hands occupied.
“Daniel says a sick man never dies at sea, mistress,” Rory said, his voice too young for this place and these circumstances. “Only when he reaches port.”
“I’ll have no more of Daniel’s idiocies repeated in this room.” Iseabal said curtly, pushing up her sleeves. “He’s Alisdair MacRae and he isn’t going to die.”
Kneeling at his side, Iseabal began to bathe his face carefully, cleaning it of blood. Only then did she begin on his wound. The depth of it would reveal whether or not Alisdair would gain his senses or would fall into a deep sleep, never to awake again.
Once his hair was clean, her fingers trailed gently over the edges of the wound. Although the gash was long, it did not appear deep, as if something had grazed his scalp. Perhaps he had truly been shot.
“Will he be all right?” Rory asked.
She glanced over at him, only now realizing that Alisdair’s boots and breeches had been removed.
“The sooner he wakes completely, the better a sign it will be.” And when he awoke, hopefully, he would recognize her and his circumstances, but that was a thought she kept to herself.
Rory nodded, satisfied for the moment.
Removing the stopper from the tallest of the vials, Iseabal poured a little of the yellow liquid onto her fingers. Gently she applied it to Alisdair’s wound, hoping that the Chinese medicine had the same healing effect on him as it had had on her.
Her eyes watered from the contents of the next vial, but she coated the wound without hesitation. She worried about the poppy juice, deciding to give it to him only if he awoke in pain.
Rory came beside her, beginning to remove Alisdair’s shirt. Setting the container of poppy juice down, she began to help him.
“I’m thinking I’d be better off burning that instead of trying to clean it,” Rory said, staring down at the bloodstained shirt.
A profligate gesture, but one of which she approved.
“He’s not been stabbed, mistress,” the boy said, a conclusion she’d reached as well. “And other than this bruising about his arms, there’s not a mark on him.”
Then there was only the head wound to concern her.
She couldn’t leave him naked, Iseabal decided, standing and retrieving the nightshirt from the tansu. Her hands wrapped around the soft fabric, warming it. There were so many memories associated with this garment. The first time he’d treated her and every night thereafter, the morning after their wedding.
As they dressed Alisdair, Iseabal’s thoughts were errant and half formed. Was there anything she’d neglected to do? What should she do now? Nothing further came to her mind. Time itself would have to do the healing. Tenderly she touched his cheek, felt the stubbly growth of beard. Her palm cradled his face, her thumb lightly stroking his bottom lip.
“All we can do now, Rory, is wait.”
Rory nodded, picked up the pitcher, and left the cabin.
She turned, glancing at the doorway, where the sailors still crowded, watching their captain. Each face was somber, eyes filled with worry. Alisdair was not only respected, he was well loved.
“How is he?” Brian asked, gripping Rory’s arm after he left the cabin.
“He has a wound to his head, but that seems to be all,” Rory said.
A smile began to dawn on Brian’s face, the expression sent as fast as a thought across the ship. Iseabal wanted to reach out one hand and capture it, to caution him that such optimism might be unwarranted. But his quick glance toward her left Iseabal no doubt that he would refute any of her words. An hour ago he had been her companion. Now he watched her almost suspiciously.
“He is still very weak,” Rory admitted.
“But you think he will survive,” Brian said, less a question than a request for reassurance.
“Yes, I think he will,” Rory said, glancing back at Iseabal.
Brian nodded in her direction, a wordless acknowledgment of her presence. He said something she couldn’t hear to Rory, and the boy swiftly turned to look at her, anger in his gaze. Another link in a chain her father had forged.
Iseabal stood, walked to the door, and slowly closed it, blocking out derisive looks and whispered disdain.
She watched Alisdair sleep, imprinting his face in her memory. His jaw was stubborn, his lashes long and black, his cheekbones seeming to point the way to a mouth made for a thousand expressions and a hundred types of kisses. A man of great attractiveness, made even more so by his character.
Iseabal trailed a finger around the rim of the basin, chasing a water droplet, immersed in thoughts of what might have been. If their lives had been different, he would have been her companion in youth. They might have raced together through the glens or explored the forests. She would have shown him her necklace of blue rocks, the treasure she’d found at Gilmuir. And he, as youthful laird, would have granted her the jewelry as a gift for loving the fortress as he did.
Now, however, anything they might have begun to feel for each other was submerged beneath the truth of their lives. Alisdair was a man of principle and she was Drummond’s daughter.
Laying her head against her arm, she closed her eyes, listening to the soft sound of Alisdair’s breathing. The afternoon waned into evening, the lap of the sea as it cradled the Fortitude on her voyage almost lulling. But Iseabal remained awake, her fingers resting on Alisdair’s wrist, warming him with her touch and guarding him with her presence.
Loving Alisdair had made her feel invincible. Losing him would be like death.
“I don’t see why I have to stay behind,” Douglas complained, watching the MacRae ship sail away from London.
“It’s because you’re the youngest,” Daniel said matter-of-factly. “The youngest always gets the short shrift. Or,” he added, eyeing the boy, “they’re spoiled. Given too much.”
Douglas clasped both fists on his hips and stared at Daniel. “You’ll not be calling me spoiled, Daniel,” he said. “I’m a MacRae, whatever my age.”
The boy had a way to go before knowing as much as he bragged he did, Daniel thought. As to why his brothers had left him behind in his care, the older man had only an inkling. Perhaps they had wanted their youngest brother to obtain some additional experience in seafaring. Or it could be that Douglas was growing tiresome and it was either leave him with Daniel or throw him overboard in disgust.
Daniel stifled his smile, thinking that it wouldn’t be wise to let the young man know how amused he was. Douglas was just like a MacRae, part and parcel of the entire clan. Stubborn, and more than a little proud, despite his years and his lack of knowledge.
But he would learn, Daniel thought, as long as he wasn’t allowed to get the upper hand.
“It will be weeks before I see Scotland,” Douglas said in disgust.
“Not that long,” Daniel said, checking his manifest. “And you can make the journey speedier still,” he added, glancing at Douglas.
“How?”