When the Laird Returns Page 8

  She was feeling exactly as she had when tumbling to the bottom of Gilmuir’s foundation, as if her stomach were hollow and her limbs weightless.

  “I do not feel quite myself,” she said, her words slurred.

  “It’s the effect of the poppy juice,” he said gently, tucking in the last strip of bandage. Tying it against her right side, he sat back to survey his handiwork.

  “It is not, perhaps, as good a job as the physician could do,” he said finally. “But at least the wrapping will support you until your ribs heal.”

  He stood, made his way to his chest, opened another of the doors to reveal a series of pegs on which his garments were stowed. Selecting one in a crimson color, he returned to the side of the bed.

  Tossing the garment next to her, he bent and helped her stand. Her legs were suddenly so weak that she had to lean on him for support.

  “You shouldn’t wear anything constrictive,” he was saying through the haze in her mind. “This should suit,” he added, bending and holding out a voluminous nightshirt to her.

  She nodded, the movement of her head making the cabin careen around her. Or maybe the storm was still raging and she’d not sensed it until this moment. Leisurely, she looped her arms around his neck.

  “It’s yours,” she said, feeling as if some protest were necessary. All she truly wanted was to lie down in the bunk and surrender to this delicious feeling of languor.

  “I never wear a nightshirt,” he said, the words whispered against her temple. “This particular garment has only become a joke in my family. My mother weaves one for me every voyage in hopes that I will wear it.” Pulling back slightly, he gently removed her arms from his neck.

  “And you don’t?” she asked, fingering a silver button.

  “No,” he admitted. “But I always tell her I have, and she always pretends to believe me.”

  He untied her petticoat, the fabric brushing her legs as it fell to the floor. The rest of her shift was next, the tattered linen drifting like a cloud away from her body.

  Alisdair dropped the nightshirt over her head, helping her ease her left arm into the sleeve, and then her right. He said nothing when the heel of his hand brushed over the tip of her breast. She wanted to hold his fingers there, experience the sensation longer.

  Kneeling at her feet, he slipped her shoes from her feet, and if he was surprised she’d not replaced her stockings, he said nothing. Censure would have been wasted on her at this moment.

  He helped her sit again, lifting her legs until she was in the bunk. He covered her with the blanket, tucking it about her, then smoothing it beneath her chin. “You’ll feel better soon enough,” he said, the sound of his voice almost ethereal.

  She nodded, Iseabal thought, falling into a delicious sleep, accompanied by the vision of eyes filled with the blue of a summer sky.

  Chapter 8

  D espite the fact that it was summer, the wind seeping in from below the door was chilled. Nor had the teak flooring of his cabin been designed with sleep in mind.

  The storm had subsided enough that Alisdair was no longer needed on deck, and the night watch promised to rouse him if the winds showed signs of increasing. Now they sat in the middle of the loch, near enough to Coneagh Firth that he could feel the currents of both bodies of water surging beneath him.

  The slow, almost rhythmic creaking of the hull timbers, the whisper of the wind either ruffling the sails or, as now, swirling around the deck with a mournful moan, were all customary sounds of night aboard ship. Here in this room, however, almost too small to be a cabin, and certainly not designed to hold two occupants, Alisdair found sleep to be elusive.

  He studied Iseabal in the darkness, wondering at the confusion and interest he felt. Not once had she mentioned her discomfort, but from the looks of the bruising, she must have been in agony.

  What kind of woman wants a rock for a gift and yet remains silent and stoic when she might have sought aid?

  Iseabal breathed softly, deeply, almost as if she dreamed, but every so often she would hold her breath, those moments betraying her wakefulness.

  “You shouldn’t be awake so soon,” he said, propping himself up on his side. “Are you still in pain?”

  “A little,” she confessed. “It’s as if I feel it, but it doesn’t consume me.”

  “Another effect of the poppy juice,” he said, smiling at the wonder in her voice. “Some people like that feeling.”

  “I can’t imagine why. It’s as if you’re walking about in a cloud. You hardly know what is real and what’s a dream.”

  She’d pressed his hand against her breast, causing him to step quickly away. Did she remember that? Or of kissing his throat, her full lips pressed against his skin so fervently that she might have been a courtesan?

  “Does the ship always seem to move so?” she asked.

  Sitting up, he leaned against the door. “We’re between the firth and the loch, and the currents are mixing beneath us. But I’ve always thought the ocean alive,” he admitted. “As if there is a watery goddess spreading her arms beneath the waves. Sometimes the embrace is gentle, almost affectionate. But then she has moments of temper in which she crashes her fists against the hull.”

  “Are you a poet?” she asked quietly.

  He laughed, drawing up one leg and propping his wrist upon it. “My brother James is the man of words in our family.”

  “Your brother?”

  He nodded, then realized that she couldn’t see him. “Yes,” he said. “One of four.”

  “Five boys?” she asked, her voice sounding amazed. “Do you have any sisters?”

  “None,” he said. “At times there seems to be an army of us. It would be foolish to wish for more.”

  After a moment of silence he spoke again. “What about you, Iseabal? Did you not wish for sisters and brothers?”

  “Always,” she said, with a candor that surprised him.

  He heard the sound of the covers rustling, then a faint noise resembling a moan. Standing, he went to the side of the bunk, sitting on the wooden edge.

  “You must remain as still as possible, Iseabal,” he said gently, touching her arm. His hand smoothed from elbow to shoulder, fingers splaying against the sleeves of the nightshirt. A sudden picture of her naked beneath the voluminous garment was supplanted by the realization that Iseabal was trembling.

  He withdrew his hand and stood.

  “Are we to live in England?” she asked. Of all the questions she might have posed, this one was the most difficult to answer.

  “Perhaps it would be better not to talk of this now,” he replied, feeling a discomfort that had nothing to do with her proximity and everything to do with his burgeoning conscience. Now was hardly the time to divulge his plans for an annulment. Time enough for honesty later, when she was feeling better.

  “I have an errand to perform in London,” he said, returning to his makeshift bed on the floor.

  “What errand?”

  What should he say? The truth, his conscience heralded. At least that much he could offer her.

  “Before I answer, Iseabal,” he said, “do I have your promise that you will not divulge what I tell you?”

  The silence seemed to grow, expanding on its own until it filled the cabin.

  “Do you ask for such a vow because I’m a Drummond?”

  Perhaps he should have answered in the affirmative, but he had not been reared with hatred for her clan. They’d not featured in tales of Gilmuir, or in the heritage passed down by his kinsmen. The fact that he disliked her father intensely had nothing to do with Iseabal.

  “No,” he answered. “It is a secret that belongs to another.”

  Another interval of silence passed before she spoke again. “Then I promise not to divulge to anyone what you tell me,” she said, her words solemn and having the import of a pledge.

  The story was complicated, one that had been told to each of Ian MacRae’s sons only when he was old enough to understand the need fo
r silence.

  “My father was born Alec Landers,” he began. “The son of an English earl. But his mother, Moira MacRae, was a Scot, so he used to spend his summers at Gilmuir. From the day my grandmother was murdered, however, he refused to acknowledge his Scottish heritage. Only later did he return to Gilmuir, but as an English colonel commanding Fort William.”

  “You’re part English, Alisdair?”

  “I am,” he said simply. “My parents fell in love when my father decided to be a rebel. He began to aid the people of Gilmuir, taking on the persona of the Raven, but he soon realized that any act of kindness was not enough to save the MacRaes.”

  He heard her indrawn breath and wondered at the cause of it. “The Raven?” she asked faintly.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Every child in the Highlands has heard of the Raven,” she said, her voice sounding as if it held a smile.

  “I shall have to tell him, then,” he said, amused. “He’s a greatly respected laird, but I doubt that my father ever considered becoming a hero.”

  “Then he changed his name to MacRae.”

  “He did. Ian MacRae, the name his grandfather always called him.”

  “What happened to him, Alisdair? No one ever knew. Or, for that matter, what happened to the MacRaes.”

  “They escaped Gilmuir together. The world believes that he died at Gilmuir, but he’s alive and well, living in Nova Scotia and still rebelling, in his way, against the English.”

  “And that’s where you’re from?”

  “An island not far from there,” he said. “We named it Cape Gilmuir in honor of the old place and Scotland.”

  “So that’s where the MacRaes went,” she said, her voice sounding increasingly drowsy. If nothing else, Alisdair thought ruefully, the tale had lulled her to sleep. “But why give out that he’s dead?” she asked.

  “Because the English would still pursue him as a traitor if they knew he was alive. He was an English colonel, after all.” Stretching out his legs, Alisdair continued with his story. “Before he escaped Scotland, he succeeded to the earldom, yet surrendered the title to his younger brother. His stepmother was the only one in England to know he was still alive.”

  “And that is why you’re going to England?” she asked. “To set the record straight somehow?”

  “No,” he said. “His younger brother has died and the title is vacant. His stepmother has it in her head that since my father cannot magically appear from the dead, the title should pass to his eldest son, a son whose existence had not been known of until now.”

  “You?” Iseabal’s question sounded drowsy. He smiled, thinking that she would soon be asleep again.

  “Me,” he answered.

  “You’re going to England, then, to accept a title, Alisdair?”

  “No,” he told her softly. “I’m going to England to refuse it.”

  The galley was filled with a haze because Hamish was smoking his damnable pipe again. James frowned at his brother, but he only smiled in return. Sometimes, he thought, Hamish liked to rile him, receiving as much pleasure from the deed as he did in teasing Douglas or angering Brendan.

  Turning away, James concentrated on the entries in his journal. Life aboard ship was tedious, for the most part, and he chose to spend his idle moments in writing down his thoughts while his brothers chose to play at cards. Brendan always won, and Hamish always halfheartedly accused him of cheating. At the end of the game, both brothers were circling each other like quarreling roosters, pleased with an excuse to fight. The winner of the bout would always concede graciously to the other, and for a week or so there was peace among the MacRaes while black eyes and bruises healed.

  However their personalities grated against one another, the brothers were united in the front they showed the world. As if, James thought, listening to them quarrel now, each of them considered himself privileged to insult the other, but the world did not have that right.

  Around them, the crew slept, the night lengthened, and still they debated the wisdom of their actions.

  Douglas had started it all an hour earlier when he’d posed a surprising question.

  “Since we’re so close to England, why don’t we meet Alisdair there?” the youngest MacRae suggested.

  They’d been gone four months, ferrying two MacRae ships to the French. The transaction completed, and as profitable as Alisdair had promised, they were on their way home, slipping beneath the noses of the English.

  Over the years, the Crown’s military presence in Nova Scotia had grown alarmingly, a fact that greatly displeased his father as well as the older refugees from Gilmuir. The MacRaes had been careful to avoid being noticed.

  Turning his attention to his journal, James began to write.

  I cannot help but marvel at the irony of this family venture of ours. But then, rebellion is an old and honored tradition of the MacRaes.

  Our minds are not on the journey home, but on the possibility of joining Alisdair in London. Doing so might lighten the burden of his task while allowing us some diversion. I have long wanted to see the sights of that great city and peruse its bookshops.

  “I don’t see why it’s such a difficult decision,” Douglas said now. “We’re ahead of schedule,” he added, trying to convince them. “London is not that far off course.”

  “It’s more than that, Douglas,” Hamish said, scratching his beard. “We’re supposed to be neutral, and it’s a bit like tweaking the noses of the English to sail into their port city after we’ve sold ships to the French.”

  “Ships that will be used against them,” Brendan said, for once in accord with his older brother.

  “And who’s to tell?” Douglas said. “One of us? No one else knows.”

  “Is it that you’re pining for Alisdair, Douglas?” Hamish asked with a smile, “or simply that you’ve a hankering to see London?”

  “I thought his eyes would pop out of his head when we sailed into Calais,” Brendan said.

  “I’m not a world traveler like you.” Douglas spoke angrily. “It’s my first voyage.”

  “A true sailor,” James remarked. “And not sick once, Douglas.”

  “Not like you, James,” Hamish said.

  James smiled ruefully as his brothers laughed. During that first voyage he’d not been able to raise his head above the bunk. He was not a born sailor, nor a man as suited to the sea as Alisdair. That first time aboard ship had been to the southern English colonies to purchase ironwood for the hulls of Alisdair’s ships. Not like the ocean crossing that Douglas had endured, and well.

  “I can’t be the only one to want a glimpse of London,” Douglas argued.

  The four brothers glanced at one another, a grin playing over each face.

  “Then what is to stop us?” Douglas asked, evidently sensing that the battle was turning in his favor.

  “And you think a MacRae will be welcome in England, Douglas?” Brendan asked.

  “All the more reason to join Alisdair,” Douglas countered.

  Brendan stood, placed his hands on his hips, and arched his back, stretching. “Who’s to say he’ll welcome our interference?”

  “What interference, brother?” Hamish wondered, contentedly puffing on his pipe until his head was wreathed in smoke.

  James stood and spoke to his brothers. “Since this is my ship,” he said in order to forestall the budding argument, “I’ll make the decision. We’ll go to London, but we’ll only stay five days.”

  “Why five days?” Brendan asked, frowning.

  “Because that’s how long the two of you can last before fighting,” he said curtly, grabbing his journal and striding to the door.

  Chapter 9

  T he calm water of Loch Euliss reflected streaks of orange and red from a reluctant dawn sun. The summer-morning breeze carried the scent of flowers, grass, and the pungent, salty tang of the sea.

  Alisdair gave the signal for the sails to be raised. A flap of canvas, the sound of the ropes tighteni
ng, and the creak of the spars were signs that the Fortitude was waking.

  She began to move, seeking the sea.

  Planting his feet apart, Alisdair stood with hands clenched behind him. The wind buffeted his face; his clothing was moistened by salt spray as the Fortitude left Loch Euliss, crossing into the firth. The current churned beneath his feet as the two bodies of water met. Recalling his words of the night before, Alisdair smiled. His watery goddess had become a shrew.

  A thin yellow line on the horizon marked the division between water and sky. To his left were towering shale cliffs; to his right, an open sea the color of dull pewter. The Fortitude skimmed across the waves, her canvas shrouds full-bellied in the dawn light.

  Behind him, men climbed in the rigging while others took their turns having their morning meal. Rations the night before had been paltry, limited to hardtack and jerky, but this morning the galley fires had been lit.

  “A storm on your wedding night, Captain,” Daniel said, coming to stand beside him. “An omen,” the first mate added sourly.

  Daniel’s omens were almost as familiar as Henrietta’s signs. “What is it now, Daniel?” he asked. “It’s neither Thursday nor Friday, and we’ve fair weather with plenty of wind.”

  “It’s a pity you’ll not wear a hat,” Daniel said, eyeing his captain’s bare head. “We’re guaranteed a safe voyage if you’d thrown it overboard.”

  “You’d render me poor, Daniel, constantly buying hats,” Alisdair said dryly.

  “I expect Drummond has already done that. Still, it’s not wise to ignore the rituals of the sea.”

  Striding across the deck, Alisdair knocked on his cabin door to warn Iseabal, then walked inside at her soft welcome.

  She wasn’t in bed, as she should have been. Nor was she sitting on the edge of the bunk. Instead, she was attired in a pale blue petticoat and matching jacket, kneeling in front of her basket.

  When she retrieved a small wooden box, he forgot his errand and strode to her side.