by Willa Blair
They moved back to the waterline. Then Ella went after something higher on the beach. Muireall, eager for solitude after their conversation, walked on, gaze darting from sand to surf and back again while memories of her life at Munro plagued her and filled her eyes with tears.
She was around the curve of the cove and well into the next beach before she realized how far she’d come. The cove was shallow, with a narrow strip of sand and rocks tumbled against the cliffs as if pushed there by the relentless tides. A glance behind her proved she was out of sight of the rest of the women. She kept going, enjoying the illusion of freedom the unexpected solitude gave her. When she saw a length of rope tossing in the surf, she waded out until the water was up to her hips, grabbed what she could reach and pulled it onto the sand. The men always wanted more rope.
By the time she noticed the tide encroaching on the footsteps she’d left in the scattered patches of sand, she’d collected an empty crate and a net bag. The canvas-wrapped package containing mushy, waterlogged bread she abandoned to the sea birds.
Suddenly, a memory of a tale told around the fire one evening chilled her. In the tale, this cove flooded to its walls. She looked back the way she’d come. The sliver of beach bordering the cliff dividing the coves was no wider than her foot, and shrinking fast. She was in danger of being cut off by the rising tide, and until the tide fell again, there was no exit from this cove save the one she’d just traversed.
She ran.
Euan watched the lone woman walk the beach, searching, no doubt, for anything useful from the remains of the Tangie. Early on, when he’d heard the men approaching as the early morning gloaming lit the storm clouds, he’d retreated around a projecting bluff to the next cove. The cove where the Tangie foundered boasted sand, gravel and water-rounded pebbles all the way to the cliff face, with nowhere to hide. Tumbled rocks that gave him good cover lined this one. If he was not mistaken, its steep cliffs also boasted a sea cave or two he had yet to try to explore. If he could make the climb to them with his injured hands. One could serve as shelter for a few days, especially if it hid a spring or trapped rainwater. He’d be able to stay alive and undetected long enough to determine the fate of each of his men. Hope made him linger. He would delay as long as he could and risk capture rather than leave too soon and abandon them. Should any remain alive, once he found them, he’d steal a skiff or find another way for him and any survivors to make their way home. With luck on his side, they’d soon be back with families and friends.
The lass didn’t look threatening, wrapped in a woolen cloak. Pretty enough, aye, but sad. Perhaps with her mind on the fate of the men on the wreck, having a heart good enough to mourn the loss of sailors she didn’t even know. Or perhaps she was just wet and cold.
Don’t be daft, he chided himself. This is Ross territory. Let the lass know a Brodie observed her and she’d start screaming out her lungs before he could reach her. Instead, he watched her slowly make her way across the cove, her attention on the waterline. Her cheeks were ruddy from the cold, her lips in contrast, pale. He could not see the color of her eyes, but they were framed by delicate brows that furrowed and slanted as she searched, signaling her excitement as she spotted something in the surf, then disappointment if she rejected it. The storm had tossed up plenty of sea grass and other odds and ends, little of use. Her cloak gaped as she squatted to go through a pile of detritus, and Euan realized she wore only her shift. The thin fabric, transparent from shapely thighs to hem from the wet, clung to her legs. Her feet bare, she’d been dragged from slumber to assist in the search, with no time to properly dress. What sort of laird led these Rosses?
Then she looked behind her, jumped to her feet, and started to run back the way she’d come. Her sopping garments tangled between her knees and slowed her down until she grasped handfuls of cloth and freed her legs.
The day revealed what the night had hidden from him. Waves crashed against rocks where she had crossed into the cove. The tide blocked her escape around the cliffs to the cove holding the Tangie’s remains. She was trapped.
And so was he.
Worried now, he searched for the high tide line and found it on the cliff wall, several feet above his head. Damn. And worse, the lass was attempting the surf, trying to make her way back to her kin. In the rushing seawater, her cloak and skirts tangled around her legs and brought her splashing down. She got to her knees, but not for long. A wave dragged her under the surface before she had a chance to scream for help.
With an oath, Euan broke cover and ran for the lass.
Chapter 2
Muireall awoke on her side, coughing and sputtering, gasping for air between blows to her back. All she could see was the surf a few yards in front of her. Dear God, she’d been dragged under. The last thing she remembered, besides the sting of seawater in her nose and throat, was the certainty she was going to drown and thinking it might be a better fate than the one that awaited her at the hands of the Rosses. But someone had pulled her out. She’d made it around the cliffs! She shuddered as she dragged in another ragged breath, not just from the cold and wet. She’d never before truly understood how good air felt in her lungs.
But she feared she would regret being saved.
A man knelt beside her, pounding on her back and muttering, “Spit it out, lass. Breathe. Ye are well.” She thought she’d met all of her captors, but she didn’t recognize his voice. She didn’t want to owe any of the Ross men her life. That would seal her fate to his. Donas would give her to this man.
Grit clung to her face as she pushed up onto her hands and knees, still coughing up seawater. Her hair hung in damp tendrils to the sand, blocking her view of her savior, and his of her. At least he had ceased pounding on her when she’d moved. Her coughing eased.
Her wet cloak clung to her back and draped down her sides like a tent, but her shift, now soaked, was nearly transparent where it stuck to her skin. She sank onto her heels, gathered her sopping cloak around her for cover, if not for warmth, then scooped her hair out of her face and took her first clear breath.
The man sat back and regarded her with sea green eyes under russet brows. A stranger!
Muireall’s gasp set her to coughing again, but she held up a hand to stop him when he reached for her back. “Nay!” she hissed, then got her breath back. “Give me a minute afore ye pound me back into the sand.” She thought she’d seen every man in the Ross village. She hadn’t seen this one. She would have noticed him. Even features, broad shoulders, and kindness in the glinting green depths of his eyes. He looked at her with care, not as if he wanted to rend her sopping garments and take her here on the beach.
A grin split his face, revealing even white teeth. “Arguing with yer leech so soon after he saves ye? Ye are well, then.”
The man was possessed of a sense of humor, too.
She glanced around while she heaved another breath. Ach, nay! She was still trapped in the far cove with a rising tide. And a stranger. “Who are ye?”
The grin fled his face.
In that instant, she knew. “Ye are from that wrecked birlinn, aye?”
He nodded.
Hope started to slowly unfurl in her chest. He was not a Ross! When she next opened her mouth to speak, he clapped a hand over it and grabbed her around the shoulders with the other.
“Dinna scream,” he warned. “I willna hurt ye. I just saved ye, for the love of God. We need to be finding a way above the high tide line or we’ll both drown.” He loosened the hand on her shoulder to gesture at the cliff face with one finger. “Will ye help?”
She gave a curt nod. One was all it took for him to let her go. As he moved his hand away from her mouth, she saw how raw and scraped it was, from wrist to fingertips. “That must hurt,” she told him, softly.
He shrugged. “Least of my problems.”
“Who are ye?”
“No one ye need fear, lass.”
His eyes were kind, and he had just saved her from drowning. “Ye must have a nam
e. I’m Muireall.” She left it at that, certain he would refuse to reveal his clan.
“Euan, then.” His grin flashed, then disappeared as fast as a lightning bolt from last night’s storm as he glanced beyond her. “Are yer clan liable to put out to sea to search for ye? Surely they’ll have missed ye by now.”
“No’ yet, I think. Given the chance, I’m apt to wander off on my own, so until the lasses gather what they’ve found to take back up the cliff path, they willna notice I’m gone.” Or care. Unless they spotted the pot she and Ella left above the high tide line. Aye, the storm might have tossed it so far. Maybe. But Ella knew she’d gone in this direction and if she knew about this cove, she’d fear Muireall was trapped and might well beg for help. How soon would she raise the alarm? Would the Rosses bother to save a lass stolen from another clan nearly a month before?
The man gestured at the high tide line on the cliff face. “They ken this cove floods?”
“Aye.”
“Then we’d best be about finding shelter. Ye may wish to be found, but I dinna.” He stood and offered one of his damaged hands.
Instead of clasping his palm, she grasped his forearm and let him haul her to her feet. His nod acknowledged her care. He tensed when she glanced toward the cove where her captors salvaged his ship, but she shook her head and stepped around him, toward the sea cliff behind them. Off to the side, she saw his shoulders drop. In relief? Perhaps. Or resignation. He thought she was one of theirs, and he was stuck with her until the tide went out—or until Ross warriors came searching for her and found him, too.
After that? Should she betray him to the clan in the hopes of gaining their favor, or let him go? Or help him go? She owed him the debt of her life, after all. Muireall shook her head and led the way into the rocks. She owed this man, this Euan, what help she could give him.
“Look, there,” he said and pointed.
His voice so close behind her made her jump. She took a breath and looked along his index finger at a cleft in the rock nearly half a man’s height above Euan’s head.
“Is that a cave, do ye think?”
“I dinna ken. And how would we get up there to find out?”
“I could lift ye.”
“Nay, ye couldna. Yer hands.”
“’Tis the lowest of the two I’ve found that might shelter us. It is…barely…above last night’s high tide. And if ye’ll climb onto my shoulders, ye might be able to pull yerself inside.”
“What about ye?”
“If ye say there’s room, and if ye find a place to tie off that rope ye salvaged, I’ll climb up. At worst, I’ll wait for the tide to lift me.”
“And if it doesna rise so high tonight? The storm drove it hard onshore last night, if ye recall.”
His lips compressed into a thin line, making Muireall berate herself for a fool. Of course he recalled. His ship, and his men, had foundered in that storm. She’d hurt him with her thoughtless comment, and regretted it instantly. “I’m sorry…” she began.
“I’ll manage, dinna fash.” His response was curt, his jaw tight. He studied the rocks around them rather than meet her gaze. “Step up there, and there,” he said, indicating the erstwhile rocky stair steps he’d chosen. “Then, ye can easily stand on my shoulders.”
“And fall off just as easily.”
“I’ll hold yer legs. All I have to do is take a step or two toward the cliff and ye’ll be able to see whether that cut in the rock leads anywhere.”
Muireall pursed her lips, dubious his injured hands could hold her. But this man had survived the wreck of his ship and loss of his crew. He’d avoided the Ross men and wisely taken shelter away from the shipwreck cove. Somehow, she knew he’d do what he set his mind to, what he promised. Still, “Why not wait for the tide to lift us both?”
“Ye nearly drowned once today. Do ye wish to do it again? We need to ken, now, before ’tis too late, whether we can get in there. Whether there’s room for both of us. Whether it leads anywhere. Once the water gets that high, if ’tis simply a crack in the wall, we willna have time to find another way to save ourselves.”
“Verra well. But if ye drop me, I’ll no’ give ye another chance.”
He flashed that grin and her heart tumbled over, shocking her. She was in no position to be taken in by an appealing grin. Saints forfend, she’d just hinted to Ella she’d rather die than let a man force her. Now she was trapped with one. One who’d saved her life, aye, but if he thought that gave him the right to more of her, she swore she’d run for the surf.
“I willna drop ye. Now, up ye go.”
She gathered her composure and did as he bade, stepping from rock to rock and onto his shoulders, praying he didn’t look up. Her cloak gaped and her shift clung to her legs, but she needed her hands for more than holding her cloak closed over it. Arms outstretched, she fought to keep her balance. He shifted his stance as she wobbled. But he held her fast and moved her closer to the cleft without complaint, despite how the salt-water soaked fabric under his hands must sting his wounds.
She was able to get a hand on the lip and steadied herself. “It looks deep,” she reported. “Big enough for both of us. I canna see where it leads, but it might serve.”
“Can ye pull yourself in?”
Careful of her balance, she reached, trying to hook an arm over the ledge. “Maybe.”
“Get ready. I’ll lift ye…”
“Are ye certain?” Muireall tensed. Could he stand grinding the sand on her feet into his wounds? She reached in again, searching for something to hold onto.
In answer, Euan wedged his hands under her feet and pushed her upward.
She squeaked, clamping down on the shriek she’d nearly released. It would have been sure to call attention to them. But with the lift, she got her torso into the narrow passage and wiggled her hips, clawing with her hands and elbows, until her legs were in, too. With a sigh of relief, she glanced around. Then she got to her feet, gathered her cloak, and leaned out. Euan’s worried gaze met hers, his brows drawn down into a hopeful, wide-eyed frown. His hands, curled at his side, were dusted with sand and streaked with blood. Her gut clenched at how that lift must have pained him. “Aye, we’ll fit. I’m going to see where it leads. There’s a little light leaking in from somewhere above.”
“Let’s get the rope tied off first. Then wait for me to climb up.”
Euan studied the lass, Muireall, as she peered down at him from out of the cleft in the cliff, her face guileless and full of promise, her arms hugging herself and keeping the cloak closed over her wet shift. She needn’t have bothered. When he’d pulled her from the waves, he saw all there was to see. And what he’d seen was nice. Very nice. He couldn’t get the creamy pink tips of her pleasingly rounded breasts or the dark triangle at the apex of her thighs out of his mind. Fair of face, slender, and curved in all his favorite places. But her body was not where his mind should be right now.
Could he believe her? His life depended on her actions. If she found a way up through the caves and onto the clifftop, she could betray him to her clan. Or she might stumble into an unseen pit and lie there until help came…if it ever did. If the rising tide didn’t lift him far enough to reach the cave, he’d drown, assuming he wasn’t pounded to death against the cliff first. And no one would know where she was unless someone chanced to hear her scream. Everything he pictured was bad, worse and even worse. But really, what choice did he have? Either she was trustworthy and would aid him, or he’d die in the coming hours, one way or the other. Between drowning and torture by the Rosses, he’d prefer drowning, but he wouldn’t give in just yet.
He uncoiled the rope, ignoring the sting from the salt and rough texture, thanking his lucky stars she’d found a manageable length washed up near the beach and had sense enough to pull it ashore. He tied a knot in one end to give it more stability for his throw. “Are ye ready?”
“Aye. Dinna look at me,” she warned as she freed her arms.
Of course, the cloak wo
uld not remain closed, and she knew her wet garment would not shield her body from his view.
“I’ll do my best,” he told her and locked his gaze on the rock above her head. “Dinna try to catch the knot. Grab it anywhere ye can.” The length he gathered felt like lead in his arms. Still wet, damn it. “’Twill be heavier than ye think, so dinna lean out too far. Ye’ll fall.”
She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
He would have laughed at the spunk she showed, echoing his words, but nothing about this situation was amusing. He didn’t like feeling his life lay in another’s hands, especially the small, weak hands of a woman. A woman who would grab the rope but also wrestle with her cloak at the same time. He’d be lucky if she didn’t fall at his feet.
But as he was all too aware, he had little choice in the matter. He gauged the distance, knowing he had to keep the rope as close to the cliff wall as he could without hitting it. If it were possible, he’d toss the bloody thing into the cave, but nay, Muireall must catch it and secure it…somewhere.
“Here it comes,” he warned. With that, he tossed the knot, aiming for a point a few feet above her head. If she didn’t catch it on the way up, she’d have a chance as it fell back to him.
But the lass was quick. She got it on the first try, pulling the rope to her chest with one hand and forearm, stifling a cry as she wrapped the other arm across it and backed up a few paces. Then she turned so the cloak on her back faced him.
“Good lass!” Euan kept his voice down, but put all the approval he could muster into his tone. “Do ye see somewhere to tie it off?”
She disappeared from view, dragging the rope with her. As it slithered up the cliff face, the opposite end trailed past his feet and started climbing the wall. It paused at his waist, then started up again. Euan watched grimly. Was there nothing for her to tie it to? Or was she playing an evil game, making him watch while she took away his best chance at life? It was nearly out of his reach, and still moving. He debated grabbing it, but he needed to trust her—didn’t he? In moments, the end of the rope disappeared over the lip of the cave into its darkness.
