When the Laird Returns Page 7

  During the next few moments the elements became female, the wind careening around the mast, shrieking in high-pitched fury. The current from Loch Euliss churned below the Fortitude, slapping against the hull in an imitation of a barmaid’s playful smack. Thunder, maternal and aged, boomed no farther than the top of the masts, and lightning, acting as a petulant daughter, illuminated the steep glens on either side of the loch.

  They were too damn close to shore.

  Alisdair made his way to Daniel’s side, shouting at him as the rain pelted both of them with the surprising taste of ice.

  “Have the men come down from the rigging,” he ordered. The ropes were the most dangerous place for a man to be in a storm. Not only could he be swept out to sea by the force of the wind, but lightning occasionally struck the masts and spars.

  “We’re in for a night of it,” Daniel yelled back. “Are we heading for the firth in this?”

  “We’ll sit here and wait out the storm.” There was no other choice. They were too close to shore and could easily go aground in the darkness.

  They were all going to die.

  Iseabal sat on the edge of the bunk, gripping both sides of the frame with clammy fingers. The mattress smelled of herbs and pine, and would have been soothing at another time. But not now when a Highland storm, frightening enough on land, had been transformed into a monster that lived in the loch.

  She’d taken the precaution of extinguishing the lantern and now sat in the darkness, a hundred prayers trembling on her lips. The Almighty was evidently on the side of nature as the ship began canting from side to side. Her basket slid across the floor, landing with a thump against the edge of the bunk. Even the marble block moved, crashing into the side of the wall. The other furniture, she suspected, was bolted down.

  Gouging her nails into the wood of the bed frame, Iseabal held on. A violent shudder shook the ship, as if the ocean had gripped the Fortitude in its teeth, tossing the vessel from side to side like a cur with a bone. Iseabal lost her handhold and was suddenly tossed from the bunk, striking the floor with such force that she cried out in pain.

  She had been wrong after all. God was not in the storm, but in her body.

  Carefully, she rolled onto her stomach, each damp palm pressed flat on the floorboards, fingernails sliding into the joints between each plank. Turning her face to the side, Iseabal rested her cheek against the cold wood. Her mind was curiously empty, pain robbing her of thought and reason.

  Her mind began to wander, following the pain around her waist and above to her chest and back again to her side, a torturous journey accompanied by short and laborious breaths. Her stomach lurched, nausea spreading through her body like a wave.

  There was no way to tell how much time had elapsed. The storm had darkened the sky until not even a sliver of light appeared beneath the door.

  Twice she tried to move, and both times was halted by the pain. The third time, she managed to rise to her knees. She took one breath and released it, hands clenching and unclenching as if mimicking the throbbing of her side.

  If pain were a color, Iseabal thought, grabbing the frame of the bed for support as the ship rocked again, then it was fiery gold and red. Courage must come in shades as well. Hers would be pink, perhaps, or a shade of coral. Nothing as vibrant as yellow or as brilliant as green.

  Over the next moments the storm seemed to ease a little, the swaying not as violent as before. Iseabal lay her head on the mattress, knowing that she would have to stand in order to reach the bunk. The effort seemed beyond her.

  The door opened suddenly, the gray and watery darkness a welcoming contrast to the darkened cabin. Out of the corner of her eye Iseabal saw a looming shape. Not the cabin boy with his arrogant disapproval, but the MacRae himself.

  When he entered the cabin, the air seemed to change, growing heavier as if the space was further narrowed. Lighting the lantern again, he stared at her, the scene almost otherworldly. They might have been strangers coming across each other by accident, each seeking refuge from the storm.

  “Are you ill, Iseabal?” he asked. The cabin grew increasingly brighter as he began flipping open the three closed wind shields. “The storm will ease eventually,” he said, the tone one he might use to a frightened child. “You will soon become used to the feeling of the sea beneath you, and the nausea will pass.”

  As he walked to her side, Iseabal let her eyes flutter shut, unable to cope with both the MacRae and the pain. At the moment, her side demanded all her attention.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder and she weakly shook her head. If he touched her she would scream. All her hard-won courage would come seeping out with her tears.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, bending close.

  Again she shook her head, but he was not to be denied. Before she realized what he was about to do, he was lifting her in his arms. All at once she was adrift in a red haze so powerful and all-consuming that it robbed her of both speech and thought. She reached out and gripped his sopping shirt, pulling on the material with desperate fingers.

  He bent his head and she whispered an entreaty in one word. “Please.”

  Laying her gently on the bed, he knelt beside her.

  “What is it, Iseabal?” he asked. “The injury from your fall?”

  Surprised that he had remembered, she opened her eyes to find him studying her intently. His face was wet with rain, his brows were drawn together, his mouth thinned, his eyes narrowing into slits.

  “Does it still pain you?” he asked, reaching out to unfasten her jacket.

  She felt as if she were floating with the pain, feeling his hands on her and being unable to prevent it. Her fingers found his, tangled with them in a weak effort to halt his actions.

  “Iseabal,” he said gently, making her name a whisper.

  When his fingers moved steadily upward, her gaze locked with his. Surely he wasn’t thinking of bedding her now?

  “I’ll not be forbidden this, Iseabal,” he said grimly.

  His hand slipped beneath her jacket, spreading it apart. When her stays were finally opened, and the leather frame separated to reveal her linen shift, embarrassment warmed her cheeks.

  “You will need to sit up,” he said surprisingly, standing.

  Was a woman to assume the position of a ewe? The question was stripped from her the moment he placed his arm behind her neck and began to lift her.

  She screamed, a zigzag of sound that began loudly and in surprise and faded to a gasp as he laid her back down on the bed. Withdrawing from her, he retrieved a knife from his boot, using it to slice through her shift.

  “Merciful God, Iseabal,” he said, staring down at her side. “What have you done to yourself?”

  She followed his glance, feeling as if all the blood were leaving her head. Where there had been a faint shadowing the day before, now she was covered from beneath her left arm to her waist in one continuous dark purple bruise.

  “Have you had no treatment for this?”

  Because his voice was gentle and the look in his eyes almost kind, she forced herself to speak through the pain. “No,” she confessed breathlessly.

  Without a word, he began to slice open her jacket at the shoulder and sleeve. Iseabal closed her eyes, concentrating not on the MacRae, but on a trick she’d discovered long ago. If she focused on the pain, she could keep it contained and manageable. Otherwise, it crept through her defenses, taking command.

  Slipping a hand beneath her back, MacRae pulled the stays out slowly and gently before tossing them to the floor. Her shift was likewise disposed of, impatiently but with a dexterous touch.

  She raised her right arm, laying it across her breasts, the fingers of her right hand resting on her left shoulder. Futile modesty, but an instinctive gesture.

  Hearing the sound of something scraping against the floor, Iseabal opened her eyes to see him pushing her basket over in front of the bed with his foot. Once it was in place, he retrieved a ewer and basin from a shelf. After h
e’d set the basin down on the flat top of the basket, the MacRae went to the chest and opened the third door on the top layer of boxes. From that he took a length of linen and two amber vials, placing them next to the cloths.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed again, he bent over her and placed his hand on her bare skin. Iseabal wished the pain would momentarily subside in order to allow her time to savor the curious sensation of being touched by another person. His fingers traced the outline of one rib, then another, his stroke light, almost delicate.

  “Where does it hurt the worst?” he asked, gingerly probing the area.

  Everywhere, she mentally answered, but discovered that was not quite true when he prodded an especially agonizing spot. “There,” she said, her gasp released on a sigh.

  “You’ve either bruised yourself badly, Iseabal, or you’ve broken a rib. Either way, it’s painful.” He leaned back, surveying her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  What could she have said?

  “You might have said something, Iseabal, to alert me to your injury or the degree of it,” he said. Cupping her chin with his hand, he turned her face, held his fingers beneath her jaw until she opened her eyes. “On the journey back to Gilmuir, for one.”

  “Then you will wait?” she asked. “Before we couple,” she added, in case he did not understand.

  His shoulders stiffened.

  “I have no wish to bed you, Iseabal,” he said tightly. “Only to treat your injury.”

  He removed his hand and stood, leaving her staring at him. She did not mean to escape her duty as a wife. Yet he’d sounded relieved more than eager.

  Walking to his chest again, he opened yet another small door, retrieving a tiny stoppered pitcher. Pouring a small amount of liquid into a cup, he added water, stirring the mixture with his finger.

  “It will greatly ease your pain,” he said, moving back to the bed and handing the cup to her. “Drink it down as quickly as you can and you’ll not taste the bitterness.”

  “What is it?” she asked as he held it to her lips.

  “Poppy juice,” he said.

  She’d never heard of such a potion and eyed it with caution.

  “I’ll not harm you, Iseabal,” he said softly.

  She nodded, drinking the liquid quickly and wincing at its taste.

  “The water’s going to be cold,” he said, filling the basin from the ewer. “The galley fires have been extinguished.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. How polite they were, she thought with a tinge of humor. He, soaking wet and dripping all over the cabin, yet insisting upon playing nursemaid. She, lying on his bed, black-and-blue with her breasts still showing beneath her shielding arm.

  A strange wedding night.

  Dipping one of the cloths into the cool water, he wrung it out only slightly before placing it on her side. She clasped her lips tightly against the delicate pressure.

  As he bathed her, replacing the cloth often, she stared above and to her left, noting the details of the wood surrounding the bunk. The dark pattern of striated ovals contrasted sharply against a lighter background. Beautiful workmanship, evidenced throughout this cabin and no doubt the whole of the Fortitude.

  “That isn’t the worst of it, I’m afraid,” he said, removing the warmed cloth.

  Iseabal nodded, wishing that she could bear to speak. But each word felt nipped at its tail and held prisoner by a sudden overwhelming confusion. She was feeling strangely light-headed, as if the pain in her side were slipping away. Her fingers felt warm, as did her toes, and her teeth felt abrasive, like limestone against her suddenly sensitive tongue.

  He set the cloth aside, reaching for one of the amber vials shaped in the form of a dragon, its back filled with sharp spikes, its mouth opened to reveal fearsome teeth. She could almost envision it writhing and curling, wrapping itself around the MacRae’s hand. He captured it with his fingers, taming it and transforming it once again into glass. Uncorking the dragon’s head, he tipped the vial until a creamy yellow lotion dribbled onto his outstretched fingers.

  “What is that?” she gasped, her eyes watering at the stench of rotting meat and grass.

  “I think it’s best if you don’t know,” he said, a faint smile playing over his lips as he began applying it to her skin. “It’s an old formula given me by a man versed in the Chinese healing arts.”

  His fingertips smoothed the cream against her skin in slow and gentle circles from her waist to just below her arm. A not unpleasing sensation, Iseabal thought, drifting in the feeling.

  When he finished, the MacRae opened the second container, this one in the shape of a reclining rabbit, pouring an even viler smelling lotion into his palm.

  Each of his fingers felt like a tiny brazier against her skin. His thumb heated the curve of her breast, then just as quickly eased the sensation with a long, soothing stroke.

  Closing her eyes, Iseabal wondered at the strength of his poppy juice. “Warm,” she said, the word languid and soft, as if having texture.

  “It’s supposed to feel that way,” he reassured her, his voice low and lingering. Your hands are warm, she said in her mind. Not the lotion.

  She blinked open her eyes to find him capping the vial. He placed it on the basket top before turning to her again.

  “I cannot swim,” she said sluggishly, feeling the gentle sway of the ship beneath her. She’d meant to tell him before, but just now remembered.

  “Most sailors cannot,” he replied reasonably. “But we’re not going to sink,” he added, “so it won’t matter.”

  “Are you certain?” Why did her voice sound fuzzy?

  “Imminently so,” he said, smiling.

  Raising her right hand, she cupped her fingers around his jaw, a gesture that evidently surprised him. His eyes flickered to her chest, then back to her face. The chilled air against her heated nipples reminded her that she was half naked.

  “You’re so beautiful,” she said, the truth needing to be spoken. “Are all the MacRaes beautiful?”

  He removed her hand, placing her arm over her breasts again, shielding her from his sight.

  “I’m the least handsome of the lot,” he said, a soft smile curving his lips. “My brother James is the handsome one.”

  “No,” she said, wondering if her lips should truly be this numb.

  “You will have to be wrapped, Iseabal,” he said, his face somber. “And for that you’ll have to sit up. Can you bear it?”

  Iseabal nodded, thinking that she could bear anything at this moment, even her wedding night.

  He began to tear a cloth into lengths, tying them together before folding them end over end. She watched his hands raptly, fascinated that a man’s hands could be so large and yet so dexterous.

  He was so close that she could see the pattern of his buttons, a raised fist holding a sword. An insignia not so much of aggression as of protection.

  “What is this?” she asked, brushing the fingers of her right hand against his chest.

  “The emblem of the Clan MacRae,” he said, drawing her up to a sitting position.

  She closed her eyes, the red mist threatening again, but warmth oddly seemed to replace the pain.

  “What is your name?” she asked abruptly, obviously surprising him with her question. “What do your friends and family call you?”

  “Alisdair,” he replied. “But surely you knew that. I spoke my vows not once but three times,” he added dryly.

  Her gaze slipped sideways. “I was not paying much attention,” she confessed, warmth heating her cheeks.

  “What were you thinking of, Iseabal?” he asked.

  “You,” she said, leaning her forehead against his damp coat. You, she whispered again in her mind. But nothing like the thoughts she was having now. He was parting the red haze with his fingers, his smile keeping the pain at bay, and she was almost desperately grateful to him.

  Thank you, she said silently, brushing her lips against his coat.

  Beginning at her
back, he wound the cloth around her side, lifting her left arm carefully as he did so. His knuckles brushed the underside of her breasts as he rolled the cloth across her stomach and around to her back again.

  Pressing the flat of one hand against her back, he held her upright. His palm was growing heated, or she more chilled. But she didn’t feel cold. Instead, there was a warmth inside her, one that traveled from her nose to her navel and around to the backs of her heels to fly to her head.

  Sighing, Iseabal breathed against him, finding the dampness of his clothing an irritation. She should take his clothes from him, place her hands upon his chest, and warm him, too.

  Once again he raised her arm, his fingers brushing the inside of her elbow and lingering there.

  A raindrop dangled precariously from his hair and Iseabal watched it in fascination, the sight of it filling her vision. Tinged blue and beautiful in the lantern light, it hung pendulous from one damp tendril before falling. She watched it float in the air for an eternity until it disappeared in a damp trail between her breasts.

  Suddenly Iseabal was so tired that she could barely keep her head up. She pressed her face against his neck, breathed against his throat. He smelled of Gilmuir and himself.

  Speech was beyond her, silence lingering and filling every nook in her mind.

  His breath was warm against her chilled shoulder as he bent to test the tightness of the wrapping. He glanced up at her and then away as quickly.

  The procedure seemed to take an eternity and she reveled in it. A nearly inaudible voice from a far-off land whispered a tinny protest. She was not herself, but then she was. This woman whose lips were pressed against the MacRae’s, Alisdair’s, throat was not Iseabal Drummond, recently wed. Instead, this was a stranger, whose blood beat hot and whose skin shivered with a brush of his night beard against her arm.

  The edge of his cuff touched her waist; the feel of the sodden cloth against her skin was too abrasive. How strange that she could feel so much.

  As she watched him from beneath her lashes, her view of Alisdair was narrowed to his hands and his chest, but nothing more.