by Amy Jarecki
Angus and his men had faced many tempests before. MacDonalds were born seafarers, afraid of nothing. By the grace of God, they would see the shores of Islay this very eve.
Tack northward? To Scotland?
The only Scots Anya knew who would dare pay a visit to Carrickfergus were the MacDougalls.
Has the Lord of Lorn fallen out of favor with Ulster?
She’d taken a glimpse out from under the tarpaulin and seen the sky. A winter’s storm was upon them for certain. To establish a northward heading was akin to inviting Satan to release hellfire and damnation. Already chilled to the bone, a tremor as frigid as ice pulsed through Anya’s blood. She was no stranger to the sea, and sailing directly into a squall was as foolish as it was reckless.
Who were these men and where did they hail from? Judging by soldiers she’d seen running toward the sea gate, and the way the galley was so hastily put to sea, they were clearly no allies of the Earl of Ulster.
What if they discovered her?
Dear God in heaven, help!
The boat pitched from side to side, taking on water by the bucketful. Soaking wet, Anya clutched the tarpaulin and dared to again rise up high enough to peer over the top of the hull. Storm clouds touched the water while the wind whipped and flapped the oiled cloth. An enormous frothy wave crashed over the bow, deluging her entire body.
There wasn’t a speck of land in sight, though she could see no farther than a few yards.
Everyone knew winter tempests were the deadliest. The sea would swallow her whole if she tried to swim. If she stayed put, she might succumb to the cold. Her teeth chattered as another wave doused her, filling her mouth with seawater.
“Gael, take the tiller!” boomed the man who gave the orders in a thick Scottish brogue.
Trying not to cough, Anya quickly ducked down, her knee knocking against the axe she’d found after it had poked her in the hip. The blasted thing thudded. Still clutching the tarpaulin, she sucked in a sharp breath. What if they found her? What would she do? If these Scots had fallen out of favor with her guardian, they wouldn’t be likely to turn the galley around and head back to the sanctity of the bay.
As water washed over her legs, her teeth chattered.
“The wind has changed!” shouted a man.
“Prepare to tack!” bellowed the leader. He was right beside her now, his bucket ladling only inches from Anya’s toes.
Bless it, she should have jumped onto the pier when she’d had the chance. If only she’d leapt out of the ship as soon as she’d heard footsteps, she most likely would have survived any tongue-lashing from the earl. Now, chances were they’d all perish.
The galley turned and sailed directly into the surf. Like a jolting ride on an unbroken horse, over and over they sailed up the enormous swells and plunged downward, the bow repeatedly submerging and dousing her with icy seawater. Anya shivered, her teeth still rattling in her head.
“She’s not going to make it!” shouted a sailor.
“Bloody oath, I’ll be sitting by Dunyvaig’s hearth afore dawn or I’m nay Angus Og MacDonald!”
Holy Mary, Mother of God! There was no doubt. The men sailing this boat were the loathsome MacDonalds, and the man leading the crew was none other than Fairhair himself. Clutching her fists to her face, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Oh my, oh my, oh my God!
These were the vilest miscreants on the seas. Would they slit her throat and cast her into the angry swells? Would they take her captive and throw her in a pit prison?
What if they discovered she was the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan?
“Achoo!”
Oh no!
Every muscle in Anya’s body tensed as she curled tighter into a ball, the ship rocking mercilessly. How in heaven’s name could she have allowed herself to sneeze? But it had come on so fast. And her sneeze wasn’t a polite little squeak like Finovola’s sneezes. It was an unladylike, earth-shatteringly thunderous roar.
The man bailing beside her grew oddly silent.
Not daring to breathe, Anya wrapped her fingers around the axe’s handle and prepared for battle.
Though Angus’ hearing was acute, the sneeze that came from beneath the tarpaulin was barely discernable over the howling wind. He studied the oiled cloth as he stilled his hands. Had some lad stowed aboard? If so, the wee fellow must be soaked to the bone.
Angus grabbed the tarp and pulled it away. Rather than a terrified lad, a screaming banshee sprang up, wielding a battle axe, the blade bearing straight for his face. Stumbling backward and falling onto the bench behind, he barely blocked the weapon’s strike with his pail. The axe hacked through the timbers while Angus rolled aside, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder.
With a shrieking war cry, the imp recoiled. Taking advantage of the weapon’s backswing, Angus lunged forward and seized the demon’s wrist, wrenching the axe from her grasp.
Her.
’Tis a bloody female?
Angus regained his feet while the skies opened with renewed ferocity, dousing them with a torrent so heavy, the lass’ face blurred into a surreal nightmare. No taller than the middle of his chest, she reminded him of a drenched hedgehog.
Or an angry badger with piercing emerald-green eyes.
He hovered over her with the axe in his fist while a fissure of ire shot up the back of his neck. How dare anyone stow away on his ship and then launch an attack like a hellion from Sparta? “What the blazes are ye doing on my birlinn…in the midst of a squall, ye hellacious rapscallion?”
Lips blue, teeth chattering, the lass tipped up a saucy chin. “This was supposed to be a fishing vessel, moored for the night!”
“Bloody hell,” groaned Raghnall from behind.
Angus glanced over his throbbing shoulder. Bless it, there wasn’t a dry piece of cloth on the boat, including the sealskin cloak hanging from the woman’s shoulders. Against his better judgement, he offered his hand. “Nay, ’tis no fishing boat,” he growled. What the devil was he going to do with an Irish waif in the midst of a winter storm? “Come, ye’d best move back to the tiller.”
Not budging, a ferocious spark flashed in her eyes.
“I’ll no’ hurt ye, lass. But if ye remain here in the bow, ye’ll catch your death for certain.” Angus extended his palm a bit farther just as a wave crashed over the prow, slammed her in the back and sent the shivering waif careening into his chest. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, stopping her fall. Good God, the woman was trembling like a sapling in the wind.
“Come now,” he said a bit more gently, while swiftly rubbing his palm around her back to warm her.
Saying nothing, she went limp against him. Angus lifted the lass into his arms and headed aft, stepping over benches and ducking beneath the boom. “Bail faster, men!”
“Land ho!” shouted Gael, pointing.
Angus searched in the direction of the man’s finger but saw naught but a wave as tall as his keep bearing down upon the port side. He tightened his hold around the lass in a feeble attempt to protect her from what could only be the wrath of God.
As if a monster from the deep had come to feast, the wave picked up the hull, tilting the birlinn to the starboard side until her sail touched the sea. “All hands to port!” Angus shouted, praying their weight would be enough.
Beneath his feet, the timbers shuddered as the wee boat strained to battle the ravaging wave.
The woman in Angus’ arms screamed, pounding her fists against his chest, but he wasn’t about to let go. By boarding his boat, she’d placed herself in his care, vixen or nay.
“Prepare to swim!” Angus bellowed, using one hand to release his heavy sword belt and letting it clatter to the timbers. The ire of the tempest sent three overboard while Angus fought to maintain his footing, only to find the fury of the sea was not in their favor this night. The sturdy birlinn rolled over as if it were no more than a child’s toy.
Flung into the swells, icy water silenced the woman’s screams as toge
ther they plunged into the bitter North Sea. The undertow pulled them downward, tumbling around and around.
Kicking with all his strength, Angus had no sense of up or down. The only thing consuming his mind was God-given air. If he did not break the surface soon, both he and the lass would expire before they succumbed to the cold. But fight as he may, the woman’s sodden cloak was enough to drown them both. Angus brutally tore open the ties at her throat. With the release of the weight, the water buoyed them enough for him to gain a sense of up from down.
Knives of pain drove through his flesh as he kicked, all too aware the lass had already lost her fight. Angus dared to release one of his hands, fighting for the surface, swimming toward the faintest modicum of light. His lungs seared with the need to breathe. His throat closed. His vision blurred.
All at once, his head broke through as he gasped, sucking in a gulp of air, only to be assailed by another wave and again pushed to the deep.
Still clutching the woman in his arms, Angus kicked, refusing to give up.
Not today.
Not ever!
4
Sapped of strength, Angus ground his molars, summoning his last vestiges of fortitude as he dragged the woman ashore. “Ye’ll nay die this day!” he growled, panting and sucking in gasps of air. The pain in his shoulder had long since gone numb, as had his fingers, his toes, and every other bloody extremity of his body.
The lassie’s legs cut trenches through the sand as he hauled her away from the foaming surf and onto the smooth stones lining the shore. Her face and lips were blue, a swath of wet, dark hair wrapped around her throat. Fighting his exhaustion, Angus tugged her into his chest while his backside plummeted to the ground. “Live, damn you!” he cursed, repeatedly slamming his palm against her back.
With a violent cough, seawater spewed from the woman’s lips.
“Again,” he shouted, hitting her hard and making her sputter.
“Thank God,” he mumbled, dropping his forehead against her back.
The woman’s shivering commenced anew while an icy wind cut through the weave of Angus’ brechan. Bless it, both their teeth were chattering loud enough to wake the dead. Holding her steady, he rose to his knees and searched beyond the shore. Ballocks, they’d landed on the wee skerry of Nave. ’Twas but a half-day’s sailing from Dunyvaig. Hell, if it weren’t dark, he’d be able to see the Isle of Islay from this very spot.
“M’lord!”
Angus turned toward the sound, his heart skipping a beat. “Raghnall, thank God!”
The man-at-arms stumbled toward them before collapsing at Agnus’ side. A stream of blood dribbled from his temple, staining his shoulder red.
“Where are the other survivors?” Angus asked.
“Ye pair are the only souls I’ve seen.” Shaking, he rubbed his arms against the frigid cold. “With luck, they drifted farther east than we did.”
Angus looked to the skies. Still raining, black clouds hung ominously low. “We’ll no’ survive the night unless we can warm our bones. Let us away to the chapel.”
The wee lassie in his arms had barely survived, yet it was all he could do to push to his feet and lift her into his arms. She was a fighter, that was for certain. A less-robust woman would have succumbed to the ravages of the sea.
Though the little church Angus’ grandfather had built overlooking the North Sea was only about a hundred paces away, by the ache of every sinew, he felt as if he were starting at the base of Ben Nevis on an uphill climb.
“Would ye like me to carry her?” asked Raghnall. “Your shoulder needs tending.”
“I can manage,” Angus grunted as he trudged forward.
Once they made their way inside, Angus sighed at the relief to be out of the wind, though it was still bitterly cold. The chapel had been used annually for the Lammas Day feast and bonfire. The clan always began by giving thanks and praying for a successful harvest. The nave had but a small altar with a brass cross and a vaulted ceiling, which made their footsteps echo.
“Start a fire,” Angus said, gently resting the woman on the only strip of carpet, which was near the altar. She was barely conscious, shivering and gripping her fists beneath her chin.
“With what?” asked Raghnall, rubbing his hands. “Everything that might take a spark is soaked.”
Angus looked to the altar, carved with a scene from Christ’s last supper. Though it was priceless, he’d set the entire block of mahogany alight if it meant their survival. As he panned his gaze across the nave, the wooden chairs, their seats woven with wicker, caught his eye. “We’ll start with the chairs. Then we’ll bring in rushes to dry.”
While Raghnall set to work, smashing a few chairs into burnable bits, Angus pulled the tapestry from the wall. “We must remove our sodden clothes afore we’re chilled all the more.”
With flicks of his fingers, Angus took off his belt and the brooch at his shoulder, only now realizing he’d lost his father’s sword. Aye, with the prospect of a swim in the North Sea, he’d needed to release the buckle and drop the weight, but Da’s great sword with its bejeweled hilt was gone. His dirk and sgian dubh remained secure in their scabbards, thank heavens for small mercies.
After Raghnall had a fire crackling in the brazier, the man-at-arms stripped to his shirt as well, their cloaks long gone. He nodded toward the stowaway. “What about her?”
“She’s come this far. I’m no’ about to lose her now.”
The man-at-arms stooped to retrieve his dirk. “I’ll fetch the rushes.”
Angus kicked off his sodden boots and peeled away his hose, draping them over the back of a chair. Releasing a deep breath, he faced his charge. “Ye’ll nay survive if ye remain in that heavy woolen gown.”
On the boat she’d worn a sealskin cloak—a sign she might be highly born—but had he not ripped it from her person, they would be dead for certain.
When she didn’t respond, he touched her shoulder. “Come, lass.”
With a bat of her hand, her eyes flashed open as she startled. Angus’ breath caught. Either those deep pools of emerald green were as mesmerizing as a silkie’s spell or he was teetering at the edge of his endurance. Though he was weary and his shoulder throbbed, truth be told, those intoxicating greens caught him off guard. Thick chestnut lashes made them ever so intense, though they filled with ire and stared at him as if he were Satan incarnate. “Do not touch me!”
It was nary a wonder the woman was confused. After all, she’d been through a harrowing ordeal. Angus snapped his hand away and raked his fingers through his mop of dripping hair. “Och, with all due respect, miss, ye’ve been in my arms whilst we battled a tempest from hell. Ye cannot possibly think I would lift a finger to harm ye.”
Scooting away, she clutched her hand atop the ties at the front of her kirtle. “Nay!”
“Just strip down to your shift, lass. I promise to avert my eyes.” He placed his palm over her fingers. “What is your name?”
A resounding chatter of teeth was her only reply. While the spark in her expression told him she wanted to fight, he had no difficulty pulling her fingers away and untying the laces of her kirtle. As he worked, she closed her eyes, her tremorous shivers resuming.
“There’s a good lass,” Angus said, trying not to look, but unable to avert his gaze from magnificence.
Her linen shift clung to ideal feminine proportions. Ample breasts tipped by taut rosebuds swelled beneath, leading to a slim waist and full, voluptuous hips. Even her thighs were sculpted like a Greek goddess’. At their apex nestled a dark triangle that stirred his blood far more than it ought.
“We shall have ye warm and dry in no time,” he croaked, unable to mask the longing in his voice. With the Bruce occupying his keep, Angus hadn’t enjoyed the pleasure of a woman for months.
Though he was no stranger to the temptation of the fairer sex, Angus had never—and would never—taken advantage of an unwilling lass. He’d given his word and he’d stand by it. “This will set ye to rights.�
� He continued to ease her troubles, pulling her onto his lap.
But as he tried to wrap the tapestry around them, she pushed away. “Nay!”
“Bless it,” he growled, clutching his arms around her like a vise. “I’m trying to save ye from dying of exposure. I swear on my father’s grave, your virtue is safe, lass. Just stop fighting me.”
With his words, the woman collapsed against him, allowing him to finish. Together with the heat from their bodies, trapped by the thick woven cloth, in moments it already felt warmer. Angus stretched his feet closer to the brazier and sighed while the fire set to thawing his toes. In no time, the stowaway’s breathing became deep, indicating she’d dropped into the sanctity of sleep.
Raghnall returned with his arms full of rushes. “I’ll just spread these…” He stopped and gaped, giving a licentious waggle of his eyebrows. “The pair of ye look mighty cozy, m’lord.”
“Wheesht. Mark me, the lass would sooner dirk me in the back than allow me to revive her with my warmth. I’ve seen it in her eyes.”
The man-at-arms kicked the rushes to spread them out. “Then ye’d best sleep with one of your eyes open, m’lord.”
Aware her shoulder was driving into stone, Anya stirred. The goo in her arid mouth tasted like salt. She ached everywhere, yet she was absolutely ravenous.
She wriggled out from the wraps of a heavy cloth and sat up, expecting to see Angus Og MacDonald or his henchman standing over her with a dagger in his fist. After they’d plunged into the sea, she’d prepared to meet her end, losing consciousness and only regaining it once or twice since the big Highlander had pulled her ashore.
Surely, he was nowhere near as shockingly handsome as she’d first imagined. After all, she’d been frightened half to death. Without a doubt, Fairhair was the barbarian he was reputed to be. Though on the ship when he’d pulled the tarpaulin away and she’d tried to kill him, barbarian was the absolute last word that had come to mind.
