When the Laird Returns Page 6

  Slowly she followed, her right hand outstretched against the wall, her left held tightly at her side. The staircase was enshrouded in a darkness so profound that it made no difference if she closed her eyes.

  “Take your time, Iseabal,” he said, his voice disembodied and echoing. “The rain has made the steps slippery.”

  A marriage to a pockmarked, toothless old man with a bald pate seemed a blessing at the moment. At least an old husband wouldn’t march her from Fernleigh to Gilmuir in a drenching storm, travel down this damp and pungent staircase, intent upon taking her to England.

  Perhaps this was a dream and she lay abed now, recuperating from her injury. The thunder was her father’s roar. The clammy wetness of her garments, the result of a breaking fever. And this descent into the darkness was the embodiment of her secret fear of going to hell for not honoring her father. But the MacRae’s voice, loud and commanding, would have summoned her to wakefulness, which meant this was real and not a nightmare.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a cave, darkened by the weather and the gathering storm. Two of his men stood beside the entrance, waiting.

  “Are the rest of the men on board?” the MacRae asked.

  “Yes, Captain,” one said.

  MacRae turned to her. “Iseabal,” he said. Only that, a summons in the speaking of her name.

  Iseabal followed the three of them, ducking through the rounded entrance to the cave and emerging into the cove Drummond had discovered all those years ago. Ringed by cliffs and guarded by a giant’s teeth, the rain-dimpled water sheltered a ghost of a ship.

  He turned to look at her, his smile undimmed by the storm.

  “The Fortitude,” he said, pride lacing his voice.

  Chapter 6

  U nlike the other merchant vessels Iseabal had seen in Inverness, the MacRae’s ship was stretched at both ends until her bow and stern rose high above the water. Four towering masts spread the length of the ship, each intersected by thick horizontal beams holding huge swags of sails.

  The Fortitude’s name in Gaelic was emblazoned in bold crimson lettering along her side. Iseabal knew little of the language, the Gaelic having been forbidden for decades now. In a strange way, she thought, the MacRae was more Scots than she. He wore the tartan, displayed the language of their ancestors, and no doubt spoke it as well.

  MacRae led the way to a lone skiff on the shoreline. Without warning, Iseabal was being effortlessly lifted, her feet stumbling in the bottom of the boat before she was released. Stifling a cry of pain, she sat on the bench, surreptitiously pressing her arm against her side.

  The MacRae sat beside her, one sailor behind her, the other opposite them manning the oars. Her sideways glance revealed that his lips had thinned, his face bearing a look of irritation. Was he a man of her father’s temperament, slow to please and too quick to anger? If so, she simply didn’t have the energy to care.

  Iseabal sat on the rough wood seat, clutching her hands in her lap, choosing not to look at the MacRae, concentrating on the Fortitude instead.

  Thunder boomed overhead; lightning appeared to sizzle from one cliff face to another. Rain had transformed the air into a gray, waterlogged blanket. Was it possible to be more miserable than she was at this moment? She was drenched and in pain, and even locked in her chamber Iseabal had not felt as isolated as she did at this moment.

  The MacRae was as drenched as she, his hair slicked back in the pouring rain, yet he didn’t look battered by the elements. Instead, he sat aloof and apart, as kingly as if he commanded the climate. Or perhaps a god of rain and storm, and in his eyes the promise of a fair, sunny day.

  He turned, his gaze locking with hers for a moment before he looked away, gesturing to the man in front of them. The oars were stowed, the boat carried by the current until it nudged the Fortitude. One sailor reached out to grip the rope ladder, holding it steady for the other crewman. Then, Iseabal realized, it was her turn. Staring up at the distance to the railing, she felt unequal to the task. There was nothing to do but put her foot in one of the rungs and pull herself up the side of the ship.

  Halfway there, Iseabal was certain she wouldn’t make it. The pain in her side was as sharp and piercing as a knife point. Laying her forehead against the wet rope, she took as deep a breath as she could, gripped the rung above her, and began to pull herself slowly upward again.

  The MacRae spoke from beneath her, but the rain abruptly increased in volume, rendering conversation impossible. Was he giving her words of condemnation or encouragement? Neither mattered at the moment. This ascent would be made with sheer determination and nothing else.

  Iseabal gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain and the increasing violence of the storm, finally reaching the railing. The same two sailors helped her to the deck, a flurry of petticoats alerting her to the need for modesty. Such consideration, Iseabal thought, weighed less than her wish for warmth, shelter, and an end to the pain.

  None of the sailors seemed to mind the storm or pay it any heed. A few of them bravely gamboled up the masts, untying the ropes that held the front sails furled.

  Behind her, the MacRae swung a leg over the railing, speaking to Daniel before joining her. Gently, he took her arm and led her across the deck. Tucked into an expanse of well-polished wood was a door. He pushed it open, stepping back for her to precede him.

  His hand on her back was both impetus and encouragement. Moving forward, Iseabal heard the door close behind her.

  She entered, remaining by the door, hesitant to damage the flooring that gleamed beneath her feet. Water ran from her petticoat in rivulets and her shoes were caked with mud. But that wasn’t entirely the reason she hesitated. The chamber was so small and crowded that her presence seemed intrusive.

  At the end of the room, taking up the entire width, was a bunk built into the wall, framed with mahogany timbers and a curtain of red, black, and white plaid.

  On the far wall was a series of shelves, each framed with a ledge, no doubt to prevent the books stored there from falling. To her right was a chest built in the shape of steps rising from the floor to the ceiling, each level containing a series of small doors or drawers bearing a small brass key adorned with a red tassel.

  At waist level, a table jutted out from the chest. Designed, Iseabal realized, to swing back into the rectangular slit. When it was open, the table could act as a desk or a place to have a meal.

  There was nothing on the left side of the room, which was just as well, since her trunk had been placed there. The woven basket looked waterlogged, absurdly forlorn, and out of place.

  This room represented her marriage as nothing else could. She didn’t fit into this man’s life.

  She turned, forcing herself to face her husband. Iseabal was certain that she had never looked worse. Her hair was hanging around her face in damp tendrils; her clothing was drenched. Even her shoes squeaked when she walked. The dye from the yellow kerchief was dripping steadily down her neck.

  The MacRae retrieved a bit of toweling from his odd chest, startling her by wrapping the linen around her hair, and securing the ends of the cloth in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. His palm felt warm, as did his breath against her cheek as he bent closer.

  She’d never before been so close to a strange man.

  His presence had an extraordinary effect on her, but it wasn’t dread fluttering in her stomach, or panic in her chest. Her breath felt tight, but that could be due to the pain in her side. Her heart pounded in her chest, due to the exertion of the journey, no doubt.

  Once again he startled her by grabbing another length of toweling and beginning to blot her cheeks dry.

  “You look miserable and exhausted, Iseabal,” he said gently, placing a cloth on the table. “You’re trembling.”

  “I’m cold.” How tremulous her voice sounded, she thought. Almost faint, as if she were afraid to speak. Silence would be better, perhaps. Anything but conversing with this man the law had bound to her.

  “You need
to change your clothes.”

  “Yes,” she answered, making her voice sound more firm.

  Silence stretched between them, there being nothing more to say, no words to ease the awkward moment.

  He walked to the door and opened it, the storm an oddly perfect backdrop to his appearance. Iseabal had the strangest thought that he could as easily be one of the early Scots, naked and painted blue, standing on a hillside with his arms outstretched as if to threaten his enemies with his very size.

  Belatedly, she recognized that she should have thanked him for his kindness, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Crossing the cabin suddenly, he lit a lantern sitting on one of the steps of his chest. The soft glow illuminated the shadows as he hung it on a hook mounted on the wall.

  “If the storm gets worse,” he said, “extinguish the lantern.”

  “Where will you be?” she asked, swallowing heavily.

  “I have an errand to perform,” he said finally, shattering the silence, his eyes steady on hers. “After that I have a ship to command,” he said, smiling. “We need to get out of the cove before nightfall.”

  Iseabal nodded, watching as the door closed deliberately behind him. For a moment she simply stood there, thinking that the magistrate from Edinburgh, with his tightly curled wig smelling of dust, wouldn’t have smiled in quite that way. The merchant from Inverness, with his habit of rubbing his palms together, would never have made her think of pagan times. None of her suitors would have tenderly dried her face, his eyes intent on hers, his voice kind.

  She began to unfasten her jacket, only now conscious of the movement beneath her. She had never been aboard ship before, and the experience was proving to be a disconcerting one. The Fortitude seemed to be alive in the storm, like a horse bound for a gallop.

  Iseabal stood behind the door to remove her petticoat. There weren’t any pegs or any other place to hang her wet clothing, so she draped it across her trunk. Next came her jacket, the effort of moving her shoulder resulting in a stabbing pain in her side. Resting for a moment, she wondered how long it would be until she felt more like herself again. The constant ache was debilitating, and her body seemed to be stiffening up in response.

  The leather of her stays was soaked and so was the shift below them. She didn’t remove either garment, not out of modesty as much as a very real fear that she wouldn’t be able to don them again.

  The light blue petticoat and jacket in the middle of the basket were slightly damp but in better condition than the clothing she’d removed. Dressing as quickly as she could, Iseabal began to rub her hair, wishing that, now she was partially dry, there was some heat in the cabin.

  Moving to the lantern, she placed her palms over it, but the heat from the oil lamp was not enough to warm her.

  Rain pelted the ship; wind swirled around the decks of the Fortitude and beneath the cabin door in a lamenting moan.

  Iseabal sat on the edge of the bunk, her thoughts not on her wedding night or on the MacRae. Instead, she was wishing that she’d learned to swim.

  There wasn’t time to delay, Alisdair thought, climbing the stairs once again, two crewmen with lanterns accompanying him. The storm had darkened the afternoon sky and he wanted to be gone from the cove before the rest of the daylight vanished. Yet, for some reason, he felt compelled to do this task for Iseabal.

  A rock. That was all she’d wanted. Perhaps a souvenir of Gilmuir or of Scotland. He would give her either or both. Not simply because she wished it, but more because of the decision he’d made on the journey from Fernleigh.

  His was not the nature to accept what happened to him. Instead, Alisdair believed that a man made his own destiny. Somehow, he was going to obtain an annulment. They’d been wed outside his religion, in a ceremony unblessed by the kirk. Surely it would be easy enough to petition for his freedom.

  Because of the amount paid to Drummond, he could barely support himself, let alone expand the shipyard. But he had enough left over to settle Iseabal in some other place. Some country far from Drummond, where she could live her life as she chose. As for himself, he’d made one fortune, he’d make another.

  Peering over the edge, Alisdair reached for the rope ladder and, with the assistance of the other two men, pounded the metal hooks into the ground. He lowered himself over the side, each crewman holding a portion of the ladder to steady it.

  Walking quickly to where he’d last seen the stone, Alisdair stretched a hand into the water and picked it up, surprised at its weight. Tossing it up to the side of the pit was easier than climbing the ladder with it tucked beneath his arm. At the surface, he rolled the ladder up again before retrieving the stone.

  His boots sank into the waterlogged ground with each step as he made his way back to the priory. Turning to the men beside him, he nodded in thanks. Only then did Alisdair realize that this task had been performed in total silence.

  The door opened so suddenly that at first Iseabal thought it was powered by an errant gust of wind. But in the center of the doorway was a boy not much older than ten, feet apart to brace himself, arms wrapped around her marble block.

  Speechless, she watched him enter the cabin. He let the stone drop to the floor, the gesture accompanied by an oath so loud and foul that her eyes widened.

  “You mustn’t drop it like that,” she scolded, standing. “Marble cracks.”

  “I’d not be criticizing me,” he said, his scowl older than his years. “I hauled it from the boat, didn’t I? And up the ladder? What the captain was doing fetching the stupid thing, I’ll not know. Next you’ll have him mucking about in the mud to find just the right pebble for you.”

  “Do you always talk in such a fashion?” she asked, startled. He was little more than a child, yet his vocabulary and demeanor marked him as older.

  He stood, his legs still braced apart, his hands behind him, a pose she’d seen the MacRae assume.

  “I’m Rory, the captain’s boy, ma’am,” he said proudly.

  “His son?” she asked, confused.

  “You’re thinking I’m some by-blow?” he asked incredulously. “The MacRaes are honorable men,” he said, making no effort to hide his derision. “I’m his cabin boy.” With that, he stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  A gale had just passed through the cabin, Iseabal thought, a two-legged force of nature to challenge the gathering storm winds outside.

  Lowering herself carefully to her knees, Iseabal placed her hands on the block, grateful to find no cracks in the surface of the smooth marble.

  This was the errand the MacRae had spoken of, going back to the pit for the stone she wished. What kind of man grants a bride such a doubtful gift? Or who does so without a word of protest?

  He was a man of fearsome stature, whose eyes had grown cold when looking at her father. The MacRae was not a man to challenge, yet he’d done such a thing for her. Nor was it the first time he’d shown consideration.

  Who was her new husband? Iseabal suddenly realized that she wanted, very much, to know.

  Chapter 7

  T he increasing wind buffeted Alisdair until his wet clothing was plastered against his skin. There was no reason to change; he’d only become drenched again. After the Fortitude made Coneagh Firth, he’d revel in dry clothes, and in the warmth of a brazier carried up from the galley. A promise to himself that led to another thought.

  Where was he going to sleep tonight?

  Sleeping below the stars was a nice respite from the closeness of his cabin, smaller than most captain’s quarters due to the Fortitude’s design. On a fair night he would not hesitate to make a berth on deck. Nor was he adverse to sharing quarters with his crew. But he wasn’t about to drown, and they were two sailors over on this voyage, the men drawing straws to see who won a hammock for the night. He wouldn’t take a place not rightfully his.

  The sails harnessed the wind in a whoosh of canvas. Below his feet, he could feel the Fortitude’s eagerness to escape from the cove. But Scotla
nd did not release them easily, he mused, as the thunder growled over them and lightning struck too close to the necklace of rocks, as if warning them not to leave. The sheer cliffs curving to form the promontory that was Gilmuir were starkly illuminated by a flash of light even as Alisdair gave the signal for the anchors to be raised.

  His most trusted pilot manned the wheel, easing the Fortitude around the natural barrier as he watched.

  “Henrietta was right,” Daniel said, coming to stand beside him.

  “I thought that particular omen was for yesterday,” Alisdair said, glancing at his first mate. “Or are there no timetables for Henrietta’s omens?”

  The cat might have warned him, Alisdair thought dryly, that he was about to be made a pauper and a husband.

  “The cook wants to know if it will be a cold meal, Captain,” Daniel said, not responding to his gibes about the ship’s cat. When Daniel considered himself right, he retreated into a smug silence.

  “Tell him to keep the stove cold until after the storm passes,” Alisdair replied, annoyed.

  Daniel nodded and left him. Alisdair turned, flattening his hand against the rail. Loch Euliss was a silvery gray, its waves quieted under the onslaught of rain.

  The Fortitude was beginning to rock in the increasing wind, an indication that there was too much sail. Alisdair called out the order to Daniel and watched the men clambering up the mast. They were lost in gray shadows, as if they’d climbed into a watery cloud.

  A gust of wind nearly felled him, as if in displeasure for his departure. Alisdair steadied himself, wondering if the storm would follow them all the way to Coneagh Firth. The MacRaes were once again leaving Scotland, and the rain and the thunder seemed to chase them on their way in punishment.

  He had heard stories of the first exodus, when his parents had married aboard ship amidst the sound of bagpipes played by his great-uncle. Alisdair could almost hear Hamish’s pipes now, the wind playing a tune as it whistled across the deck.