by Cathy MacRae
Her mind went blank. She stared at the ropes, trying to remember sailing with Uilleam on the loch. Which ones raised the sail aloft? How did she tie it off?
Tears flowed. She would not be bested by a damn boat. She would not be at the mercy of the pirates again. Maggie wiped her sleeve across her eyes and stared challengingly at the sail. I will master ye.
The yard. It holds the sail. Raise the yard and the sail will follow.
Uilleam’s voice came as clear as if he stood beside her. Maggie’s tremble eased and she stepped confidently to the mast and untied the lines holding the sail in place. As if in league with the pirates, the wind whisked the halyard from her grasp, dangling it just beyond her reach over the edge of the birlinn. The ship tilted, angling back toward the beach. Exasperated, she pulled back her skirt and placed a foot on the wet rail. The rope flapped out of reach.
Be careful, lassie. If it isnae safe, find a better way.
She glanced about and spied a long slender rod with a rusted hook at one end. Mindful to keep her weight canted inside the boat, she leaned over the rail and snagged the errant rope with the metal hook.
Do ye ken where ye’re going?
Several yards now distanced her from the beach as the current tugged the birlinn toward the open ocean.
“Nae. I dinnae,” she whispered, despair rising once again. “Wait. ’Twas morn. The sun was in my face. We sailed east, away from the harbor, then south, rounding Hola’s eastern point.” She peered at the sky. The sun dipped a few degrees toward the horizon to her left. West. That’s west. Hola must lay ahead.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled the halyard and raised the black sail a few feet, arms straining as wind filled the cloth. Though she sacrificed speed, handling the boat was easier with the shortened sail, and it would also make her less visible from a distance to other boats she might encounter.
The ship leapt across the water, dancing before the wind, heading east. She tried to bring it about with the rudder, but the birlinn bit the waves like a fractious horse champing at the bit. She lowered the sail a bit more, sighing with relief as the birlinn settled.
She risked a glance at the beach behind her, a brush of pale gold against the sea, backed by low fields and flowers. Beautiful—and nearly her undoing. Yet, she had escaped. She’d killed a man outright, saw another burn who likely would not linger long with his wounds—if he still lived.
She glanced at her hands, firm on the rudder, one swollen and bruised, both stained rust-brown with dried blood. Memory swamped her. The firm feel of her dagger against the pirate’s belly—the sudden give of flesh against the blade. Blood, hot with life, gushing over her hands. Her stomach roiled. She lurched forward, landing on her knees, vomiting on the planks as horror washed over her.
I killed him. With my own hand, I took his life. Plunged my dagger into his belly, watched his eyes widen in shock, fade into death.
She retched again, tears mingling with the yellow fluid which was all her stomach now contained. Breathing deeply, she calmed, then eased back to the bench and took the rudder again to correct the birlinn’s course. It answered with a bone-jarring dip in the trough of a wave, but Maggie guided it determinedly toward the black cliffs that rose in the distance.
She was going home.
Chapter Thirty Four
With Balgair’s help, Phillipe reached the top of the cliff before he passed out. He woke to darkness and a slight pressure on his brow. He raised a hand and encountered a pad across his eyes. The heavy cloth was removed, and the fuzzy image of an old woman, gray hair lying about her shoulders, smiled at him.
“How do ye feel?”
Phillipe squinted, just barely able to discern a bead of light outlining the shape of a door. The cover flapped, bringing sunshine and a fresh breeze into the chamber before it swung closed again.
“I want my wife.” The words emerged, a cross between a rasp and a wheeze. Phillipe winced at the swollen, ragged sensation in his throat.
The cloth over the doorway moved again and a figure darkened the portal. Balgair dragged a stool across the dirt floor and settled on it next to Phillipe.
“I’ve a bit of news for ye. First, ye’ve been here a brace of hours or so and ’tis past the noon hour. Ye took quite a blow to yer heid, and being tossed from the cliff dinnae do ye any favors. Fraida has stitched ye up nicely and has some manner of noxious brew for ye now ye’re awake.”
The woman held out a steaming mug. Fighting the frustrated urge to throw the mug across the room, Phillipe allowed Balgair to help raise him enough to choke down the tisane. It was as noxious as Balgair’d promised.
His friend grunted as Phillipe passed him the empty mug. “Here’s what I’ve learned. It seems yester eve, just before the storm hit, Narfi and Sakki were on the overlook with yer wife’s falcon. As they watched the seals and the storm rolling in, Sakki thought he saw something. He’d been teasing Svala about pirates—which he kens he shouldnae do—and decided ’twas his imagination, though he first told Narfi he thought he saw a sail.”
“Merde,” Phillipe hissed. “Why were we not told this?”
“It seems they forgot in all the excitement of our arrival.”
Phillipe swung his legs over the side of the cot, raising his head slowly against the roiling protests shooting arrows behind his eyes. He placed his feet on the floor and rose, palms braced against his thighs.
“Fraida says ye arenae to rise for at least a full day,” Balgair offered as he reached a hand to steady his friend.
Phillipe glared at him, head tilted and bowed slightly forward. “I willnae lie abed whilst my wife is missing. We will set a watch on the promontory and on the beach, then send the Mar to Morvern and request ships to sail to all neighboring isles.”
“I’ve already placed men all over the isle, even at the monastery in case the pirates have grown wings. Which reminds me, I saw a bit of trampled grass on the overlook when I was looking for ye, which means they likely made their way to the rookery then climbed the cliffs there.”
“Then I’ll be about finding Maggie.”
He reeled at the onslaught of sunlight as he brushed aside the door hanging. He could see naught but bright light and vague dark lines that could have been people, boulders, or the frame the women used to smoke fish. Two forms approached. Phillipe shielded his eyes, fuming at his weakness.
“Sir, we havenae seen or heard anything.” Asatrus’ voice carried a thread of worry.
Phillipe waved his hand impatiently. “I do not want the boys punished, but there is now an edict that all sightings will be treated with utmost importance. All will report to whomever is in charge that day, and they will be taken seriously. I do not know what has happened nor how the pirates landed on the isle without notice, but it will not happen again. Am I clear?”
Asatrus bowed his head. “Aye, my lord. ’Tis clear.”
Footsteps thudded up the path. Phillipe squinted his eyes, gratified to find the sun’s assault lessening. The lad, Narfi, huffed to a halt next to Asatrus, grabbing his sleeve, eyes wide.
“I’ve come from the point,” he panted, canting his head to the highest part of the isle. “Evan says to tell ye a ship’s been spotted.”
Balgair shouldered through the doorway. “What kind of ship, lad?”
“A birlinn, sir. ’Tisnae like the pirate’s ship. This one has a black sail.”
Phillipe turned to Narfi. “Get Callan. Have him bring three men with him and meet me on the beach. I want him here before that ship docks.”
The lad scampered off, leaving Asatrus and Sakki staring expectantly. MacLean men and islanders clustered near.
“Sakki, get my mail from inside.”
As quick as an otter sensing danger, Sakki disappeared inside the longhouse. A moment later, he returned, Phillipe’s chain mail flashing beneath the lowering sun. With Balgair’s help, Phillipe dressed, patting his sword and each sheathed dagger in a pattern long since committed to memory as he checked the placemen
t of each. With swift movements, he tied his cloak about his shoulders.
“The rest of ye, follow me.”
Ignoring the wavering images and throbbing pain in his head, Phillipe strode to the beach, men fanned out behind him, Balgair and Asatrus at either side. Slanting rays of sun turned the sea to gold, penance for the previous day’s storm.
The birlinn eased into the harbor, sail reefed to half its size though the wind was calm.
Maggie.
He pushed thoughts of her from his mind. He could not allow distractions to what could become a battle once the ship docked.
The birlinn inched closer. Phillipe squinted against the sun, trying to determine the number of people aboard the small ship, but the black sail disguised the silhouettes. The ship’s oars were not in evidence, leaving the birlinn at the whim of the wind and rudder. It slipped against the dock with a gentle creak of boards. The spar tilted and the sail drooped against the mast, losing the wind.
“They willnae make a quick escape,” Callan noted, slightly out of breath from his race from his vantage point. Paden, Dawe, and Gunn joined him.
Phillipe grunted his acknowledgement of Callan’s observation. Whoever commanded the birlinn clearly did not envision a swift departure from the harbor. Yet, he still saw no evidence of warriors or war trappings. Was the ship’s captain that bold? Or that ignorant?
“There.” Callan pointed to the bow of the ship. A figure stepped across the prow to the dock, back bent, hands splayed for balance at the rail—skirts playing about her ankles.
Phillipe shot forward as red hair flamed against the sky, shrugging off Callan’s restraining grip.
Maggie.
Maggie straightened, hand gripping the rail. A bonfire on shore told her the birlinn had been spotted. Men lined the harbor, but from this distance, Maggie could not put names to any of them.
Where is Phillipe? Has anyone found him?
Shouts rang out.
“M’lady!” Callan’s voice.
She stumbled forward, catching her gown on a splinter. With an impatient jerk, she freed the hem, ignoring the tear as the cloth gave way.
“Phillipe?” Her voice caught. Tears blinded her. So close. So close to the people she knew and cared for—who cared about her. A few more steps and the pirates would be a memory. A few more steps and she would know . . ..
Hands gripped her shoulders. She ground her teeth, fighting the instinctive urge to fight free. She inhaled sharply, swallowing a shriek.
“Maggie.” A man stepped close. “Mon coeur. I am here.”
She whirled.
Phillipe. Her heart raced. “I saw . . .. I saw ye fall . . ..”
The grip of his arms belied any injury, but in the instant before he crushed her to him, Maggie caught a glimpse of a long wound, freshly stitched, on the side of his head. The pallor of his skin bespoke pain, the quiver of his muscles matched her own as her body rejoiced in his touch.
Gradually, her heart settled to its normal rate and she pulled reluctantly from his embrace. Still within the circle of his arms, she gently brushed his hair aside, tilting her head as she viewed his wound.
“Ye have a penchant for head injuries. Should this worry me?”
His quiet snort of laughter was a balm to her heart, one she’d thought never to hear again. Tears sprang to her eyes again. She cleared her throat and sniffed.
He smiled. “I believe ye know my tale, and ’tis a short one. Balgair found me at the bottom of the cliff and brought me back.” He searched her head to toe and back. “Are ye wounded? How can I care for ye?”
“There is naught a bit of salve and time willnae cure,” she replied, indicating the nicks and burns on her wrists, the swollen knuckles of her right hand. She flexed her fingers, the pain slowly lessening. “They were commanded not to molest me—and to await their leader.”
Phillipe’s gaze darkened. “We will speak of their leader.”
Maggie did not ask what would be done. Her husband’s eyes spoke death.
He smoothed windblown hair away and cradled her face between his hands. “Will ye come tell us all of what happened to ye?”
She nodded. “Aye. We must decide what needs to be done.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Phillipe led Maggie to the longhouse. Benches had been moved outside where space would accommodate them all. Islanders, MacLarens, and MacLeans hovered near. Ingrida handed Maggie a mug, steam wafting from the surface of the fragrant mead. Encircling the cup with both hands, she held it without speaking for several moments before taking a sip.
She glanced at Phillipe, anguish in her eyes. His heart twisted.
Ye did not sit and await your fate. Thank God ye did not. He placed a hand reassuringly on her forearm and waited for her to gather herself. A weak smile flitted across her lips.
“I saw ye fall. I ran to ye . . ..” She shook her head. “A man grabbed me. I fought, but three more came. They took me to another isle not too far distant and hid me in a cave.”
She fell silent and Phillipe scooted closer to her on the bench, offering comfort with his touch.
“I escaped . . ..” She shook her head and Phillipe did not push her for details. “Their boat was on the shore. ’Twasnae much different from sailing on the loch, and I sailed it home.”
“Why?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice level. “Why did they take ye?”
“They said they were to await Lord MacDonnell’s man and turn me over to him when he arrived.” Maggie scowled. “MacDonnell wants the isle back.”
Noises of disapproval rumbled through the crowd.
MacDonnell hasnae proven loyal. Alex’s words ran through his mind.
He placed his palm on Maggie’s shoulder. “We will not give it to him. Whatever it takes, MacDonnell will not regain Hola.”
The crowd dispersed, following Balgair, Asatrus, and Master Carpenter Munro to their tasks.
The weight of Phillipe’s hand seemed to press upon Maggie. The need to tell him the truth of her escape filled her.
She touched his leg, gaining his attention. Her breath came short and shallow as memory rose. “Phillipe, I killed him. I plunged my dagger into his belly, felt him sag against me, his blood on my hands.”
“Tell me,” he invited as he wrapped her in his arms, his voice low and soothing.
Maggie took a deep breath and told him of her escape.
“I am truly sorry, mon coeur. I was not able to save ye. The knowledge will always be with me, though I will be forever grateful ye are strong enough to save yourself.
“I want to be the one who protects ye, keeps ye safe—not because I believe ye are weak, for ye are not—but because I love ye, Maggie, and ye are important to me. Beyond the need for my next breath.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“I killed men with my crossbow when they attacked Narnain Castle and suffered no qualms. But this . . . I took his life with my bare hands, and I watched another burn because of my actions.”
“Let your mind empty, Maggie. Fill it with things which are good. Because of your actions, I am holding ye, not mourning your loss.”
She raised her head and he shifted on the bench to face her. His kiss warmed her, banished her fears. He held her as she cried, murmuring words whose meanings she did not understand. Her heart ached to consider how close she’d come to never hearing his voice again.
Her breathing at last eased and she rested against him. His fingers stroked her hair.
“Though I would like naught more than to continue to hold ye, there is much to be done if we’re to best a pirate.”
With a nod of agreement, Maggie ducked inside the longhouse and exchanged her muddy and torn gown for a clean kirtle and surcoat, quickly scrubbing her face and hands with a damp cloth before dressing and returning to Phillipe’s side.
She strode with him to the beach, sending him a searching look to ensure he wasn’t about to fall down, for she didn’t like the wobble she thought she
saw in his step. He should be resting after a blow to the head necessitating several stitches, and a fall from the cliff. He likely wouldn’t appreciate her pointing out such facts, though it was difficult to remain silent.
Balgair passed his end of a large log to another man and dusted bits of bark from his hands. “Whilst ye were away seeing the priest about being wedded, we set fire watches on the promontory and the cliff overlooking the abbey.” He frowned. “We’ll have one on the overlook as well by this afternoon, now we know the bastards can maneuver boats off the rookery.”
He waved a hand over the activity near the beach. “We have labored steadily this past sennight, though without haste, and ’twas nearly our downfall. The lads are back at work, and I have a few ideas that may work as temporary defenses until the isle is secure.”
“We’d like to see what ye’ve accomplished,” Phillipe said.
Balgair tilted his head thoughtfully. “Can ye walk the trail to the abbey? Yer heid took quite a blow.”
Maggie glanced at Phillipe. His brow lowered. “Don’t be daft. There’s no time to waste.”
Balgair’s grin reappeared. “Come with me.”
Maggie kept an eye on Phillipe, but her attention soon turned to the changes she saw almost immediately. Her heart soared as they strode the narrow trail between the low ridges to the abbey. Rocks had been removed, the pathway widened where possible then cobbled with enough rounded stones to keep the trail from becoming a quagmire ever again. The path darkened as they reached its end. Overhead, trusses formed a walkway of timbers fashioned to protect those who stood above the trail, yet with openings wide enough to aim a crossbow bolt.
Maggie flashed Balgair a grin. “This is defensible.”
“Yer lad, Narfi, borrowed yer crossbow—at my insistence—and I taught him to use it—him and a couple of others. The lad’s clever. He absorbs knowledge faster’n a sponge soaks up water. Betwixt us, we determined the spacing and width of the bolt holes. He’s been right good with yer wee falcon, as well. He’ll be about with him shortly.”
