Tempest in the Highlands (The Scottish Relic Trilogy)
Page 2
Taking deep breaths, she fought the rigid spasms she’d seen grip her mother’s body a thousand times in the past. They were slow to release her.
A tremendous boom assaulted her ears, and a shudder traveled through her. The rolling motion reminded Miranda that she was aboard a ship.
Rob Hawkins. The Black Hawk. His ship. She’d boarded at Tarbert. Cutting her hair and donning boy’s clothing, she’d pretended to be kitchen help.
Now she stiffened. The vision hovered, reminding her of the gift that was now hers. Grief over her mother’s death lingered on. But she had to pay attention. He was going to drown. She needed to get to him.
As she rolled from the hammock, the ship pitched forward and shuddered again as if it had struck a stone wall. The smell of bilge water, stirred up by the churning seas, rose from below, turning her stomach. Miranda landed on all fours on rough wood decking and touched the stone in the pouch she wore at her belt. As she stood, clutching the hammocks on either side, the bow of the ship angled upward, and seawater washed over her through gaps in the planking above.
In the distance, a bell began to clang, and curses pierced the darkness from other hammocks.
Since boarding the Peregrine little more than two days ago, Miranda had stayed out of sight as much as she could. All that was forgotten now.
The bulkhead door swung open, and the mate’s head appeared. A howling squall of rain and wind swept in.
“Up, dogs,” he shouted. “All are needed.”
Miranda was already at the door, pushing past him. Relieved to be out of the tight enclosure where the crew slept, she burst into the open air, only to be slapped with stinging salt spray.
Out on deck, chaos reigned. From everywhere came shouts, half lost in the roar of the waves and the screaming winds. Men struggled, holding on to lines and looking up at the masts and rigging where others hung on for their lives.
In front of her, a cask broke loose from the base of the mainmast and tipped over, banging and bouncing with lethal power across the deck. When it reached the gunwale, smashing into it, two sailors dove across the deck to secure it. But they couldn’t hold it as the ship rolled, and the barrel careened back across, bouncing overboard, but not before taking out a portion of the ratlines that held the mast.
Miranda couldn’t see him. She lurched to the gunwale, fighting down the panic gripping her. Her mother had sent her from the castle with stern orders to remain in hiding near the village and wait for him. Black Hawk was the key to finding her twin, the brother Miranda now hoped to find shelter with once this ship reached Duart Castle. The brother who had been separated from her at birth because of the vile man she called father. But now, in her own vision, she’d seen Black Hawk dashed overboard.
Wind-driven spray stung her face. A wave rose up and crashed over the deck. Wondering if the sea would swallow up the ship entirely, she fought back fear that was colder than the ocean itself.
She’d been onboard ships many times, but never in seas as wild as this. And always as a passenger, as the laird’s daughter.
Jumping up and clinging to the ratlines as another wave washed over them, she peered through the driving rain. Where was Black Hawk?
Miranda fought her way aft. With each roll of the ship, water poured over the side, forcing her to hold on until it receded enough for her to go farther.
Suddenly she saw him, towering over the sailors on the stern deck, shouting orders to a crew scrambling to save their ship and themselves. He exuded raw power and the sure-footedness of a man bred aboard ships. For a brief second, Miranda’s gaze moved down to the leather jerkin, dark with rain, the white shirt plastered to the sinewy muscles of his arms. With his black hair streaming about his face, Rob Hawkins punctuated his commands with explosive curses.
All but one of the canvas sails on the forward masts had been gathered and secured. Only the topmost sail on the mainmast remained to be furled. He was pointing at it and shouting. A line had snagged and two sailors were hanging on and trying to free it.
The mate screamed at Miranda from behind. “Up, lad. Cut the sheets if need be, but get that canvas in.”
She looked up, the salt water burning her eyes. The mast was tall and the tip of it disappeared in a shroud of mist. She’d never climbed anything that high. But her life had never been in danger before, either. Another of her mother’s visions. If Miranda had stayed at Tarbert, she’d die.
So many firsts.
“Good Saint Brendan,” she prayed, climbing onto the side rail. “Save me from a watery grave. More important, save him from . . .”
The crack of the mast above her froze the prayer in her throat. The ratlines went slack in her grasp, and she nearly went overboard as the top third of the mast snapped and crashed downward. Splintered wood from the yards, and lines that held it aloft, all came smashing to the deck.
A wave struck the ship at that moment and swept two sailors past her. To her horror, one went overboard on a foaming swell. The leg of the other caught in the lines, leaving the screaming man dangling head downward over the side.
Miranda grabbed his other leg, but she knew she couldn’t hold him for long.
She didn’t know where he came from, but Black Hawk landed on the billowing canvas, and was beside her in an instant.
With nothing to stop himself from going over, the captain hauled the man back aboard as if he weighed no more than a feather.
Depositing him on deck, he patted the sailor on the chest, shouting, “You’re safe now, man.”
“Aye, Hawk,” the sailor panted, trying to catch his breath. “Safe.”
Rob Hawkins cut him free of the lines that had saved him and grabbed Miranda’s tunic by the shoulder. He pointed upward.
“Climb now, lad. Cut the sheets. This whole mast will go if we don’t cut the sail free, and God help us when that happens.”
His hand brushed against hers and she saw in her mind’s eye that her vision was the truth. He was going down into this stormy sea. Hawk was gone before she could say a word.
There was nothing she could do but to obey his orders. Perhaps by saving the ship, she decided, she could save him.
This was her life, reacting to one crisis after another. Before, it had always been Muirne’s vision that directed her; now it was her own. She could change futures, save lives. But to do so, she needed to ignore the dangers she faced. It had always been that way.
Watching him as he moved across the heaving deck toward the stern, Miranda took a deep breath, reached up, and shivered. Peering up at the mast swaying wildly above her, she doubted she could reach the yardarm where Black Hawk had pointed, never mind cut the thick lines. She’d certainly come hurtling to the deck and break her neck.
Dangers. Miranda had lost count of the times she’d cheated death over the years as she tried to save someone’s life. And yet her own future remained a mystery. Her own end, whenever it should come, lay beyond her visions. She swallowed the knot of fear threatening to choke her. What she did know was that she had to climb now. Their survival depended on it.
The lines whipped in the wind, and the mast was groaning under the pressure of the sail. There was not a moment to lose. Before she could pull herself up, another wave rose up and crashed across the deck. A wall of foaming green water smashed her against the gunwale, but somehow she hung on, trying to catch her breath.
When she righted herself and wiped the water from her eyes, the main deck was littered with wreckage. The ship rolled again, and another crack cut through the howling wind.
Miranda looked up in time to see a boom tear free and hammer down on the stern. Black Hawk vaulted it as it swept the deck, but the rigging snagged him. As he struggled to free himself, another wave rose up, hung a moment, and then washed the aft deck clear, carrying the captain overboard.
Her heart stopped. She hung out over the side, clinging to the ratlines as her eyes searched frantically in the turbulent waters. It couldn’t happen like this. He couldn’t drown.
There, not far astern, she spotted a puff of white. It was Black Hawk. She couldn’t let him die. She needed him.
Climbing up onto the railing, she took a deep breath and dove into the watery tumult. The sea was freezing, but she swam in the direction of the white cloth. With each swell, she rose up high in the air, at one point looking down at the deck of the crippled ship before descending into a trough that she thought would swallow her.
A moment later, she rode upward again on a rising swell, and the Peregrine moved past, leaving Miranda in its wake.
She saw him. His face turned upward before disappearing beneath the gray-green waters.
Swimming hard, she dove just as a wave crested over her. The force drove her deep into the briny sea. Hawk was floating just above her, his arms spread powerlessly.
Miranda’s burning lungs were about to burst when she reached him. Grabbing his collar, she kicked as hard as she could and managed to reach the surface, sputtering and gasping for air.
Timber that had once been part of the ship floated nearby, and she struggled to haul the man to it. Her strength was nearly gone by the time they reached it, but she pushed him up onto the beam.
Miranda allowed herself a glimmer of hope when she heard him cough up seawater. His eyes opened for a moment, and he looked into her face before they closed again.
Wreckage surrounded them, but the ship itself was nowhere to be seen in the mountains of water.
She held on to a corner of the beam and fought back the despair that was ready to turn to panic. Where were they? Who was to find them? How long could she hold on before the cold and churning sea sucked her down into its depths? She touched Hawk’s hand, but the only thing she could see was water, dark and endless.
Tears sprang to her eyes and blended with the saltiness of the sea on her lips. Images of her short history paraded before her. What had her life consisted of? Serving. Guarding at all times against the unexpected. Rescuing others and heading off disasters. Worrying about her mother. Miranda had never allowed herself to dream, to plan, to think of a future; her life wasn’t hers to do as she wished. Her purpose was to react when called upon.
The sea was a grave and the numbing chill of death crept up her legs.
A moan rose from her chest and escaped her lips. She blinked back more tears as she recalled Muirne’s words during their last day together. Miranda didn’t want to go. She wasn’t going to leave her mother.
You have no choice, Miranda. Death awaits you if you stay. But there is more.
She’d listened diligently to everything Muirne told her about Hawk. But there was still more that she needed to think through.
This is a journey that you must travel. You will need to learn, change, and be reborn to find out who you are. The relic is a gift, but it can also be a curse. Surely you know that already. But you must learn how to manage it so it will serve you rather than forcing you to sacrifice your life serving it.
Sacrifice her life. Die in the service of a broken fragment of stone. Miranda’s limbs were growing heavy. Her chin sank into the cold sea. She touched Hawk’s hand again. Dark, stormy seas filled her vision.
Her head sank beneath the water, exhaustion setting in. She thought how easy it would be to let go. Muirne had told Miranda that her life would be inextricably entwined with that of this man, but she realized now that her mother never said just how short that life might be.
As if in response, Hawk slipped off the beam into the sea. Miranda didn’t know where she found the strength, but she reached out and caught him. Struggling, she again pushed them both to the surface. That’s when she saw a line floating off a timber nearby.
Miranda drew her knife, cut a length of the rope, and lashed herself and Hawk together across the timber.
Chapter 3
Rob Hawkins rolled to his side and his stomach heaved. Coughing up about a keg of seawater onto the sand, he forced himself to his hands and knees.
He was alive. Somehow, he’d made it to shore. He sank back down to the hard sand. But how? And what shore? Where was he? What had happened to his ship? His crew?
A stinging rain was pelting him, and the wind was still howling. He tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t. His entire body ached and his mouth tasted like bilge.
He recalled sailing north when the weather took a turn for the worse. He’d never seen it turn so quickly, and he’d grown up aboard ships. He was the oldest son of William Hawkins, a Plymouth sailing merchant who also commanded a fleet of privateers for the English Crown.
He made an effort to sit, but his arms were as heavy as millstones. His face was lying in a cold, sandy bed of seaweed. He worried about his crew, fighting to stay alive in that bloody storm.
And what of his ship? The Peregrine was his and only his. If that ship was at the bottom of the sea, how many in his crew had gone down as well? He had handpicked nearly all of those men. English, Portuguese, and Scots, and he was damn proud of them.
Rob was half Scot by birth, and that put him on the outside of English society, especially after his father’s second marriage to a highborn English woman. When they produced two more sons, his position hadn’t improved. But he didn’t care.
He smelled the sand and forced down the bitter taste of brine in his throat.
Rob was proud of making his own way. He wanted no part of court life. He never wanted to be dependent on his father’s name or fortune. And he’d established a reputation for excellence in his career “annoying the king’s enemies” at sea and in cases such as this, working as an assassin for the Crown.
He was good at what he did, and he was happy doing it. But in all the years he’d spent at sea, this storm was the worst he’d ever encountered. They’d tried to run to the west and get around it, but to no avail. Even so, they might have ridden it out, but then the rigging had begun to come down around them.
He remembered trying to avoid the boom that broke free. The next thing he knew, he was in the sea, thrashing in deep waters before it all went black.
How did he survive? Ah, the lad!
Rob’s last memory was of a boy, not half his size, pulling him to the surface, saving him.
Mustering his strength now, he forced himself to sit up. He blinked the sand and salt out of his eyes. A cold gust of wind blasted him. The storm had not lessened at all. The rain was still coming down in sheets. He was soaked through and chilled to the bone. He reached for the knife he kept at his belt. Thankfully, it hadn’t been lost.
He peered around him. The sea crashed across a jagged line of rocks before sliding up a short stretch of beach. The tide was coming in. Behind him, cliffs loomed and disappeared into the mist and the darkening sky.
Not far from him, the body of a lad lay sprawled in the sand. Rob dragged himself over.
The boy was out cold, but he was breathing, at least. His blond hair was plastered across his face. He was young, his features boyish, effeminate even, with no beard or hard lines of manhood yet showing in his face. Where had this fellow found the strength to save them both?
Rob rose to his feet and looked around again. He had no idea where they were. They could have been cast up on the shore of any number of islands along the Outer Hebrides or beyond. A wave tumbled onto the beach and washed up to his boots. He had no doubt this stretch would be underwater at high tide. He had to find them shelter for the night. Promontories with sheer, unscalable cliffs boxed in the beach on both ends, but ledges of rock at the base of the bluff running along the strand might provide a dry spot. In the murky light, it appeared that there were caves in the cliff face. That would be even better, he thought.
He hoisted the boy by his arms and tossed him over his shoulder, eliciting a cough. He’d carried sacks of feed that weighed more.
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As he climbed the beach, Rob’s mind cut back again to his ship. The masts and rigging had rained down around him before he was swept overboard. He frowned, praying the vessel had survived the storm. Whether it had or not, perhaps other survivors had washed ashore. At first light, he’d try to make his way to the top of the bluff above the beach, get his bearings, and look for his crew.
The mouth of a cave beneath an overhang was a welcome sight. The boy squirmed on Rob’s shoulder.
“Let me down,” he said weakly, struggling. “Let me down now.”
The thin frame was wracked with shudders, and the boy’s teeth were chattering loud enough for Rob to hear through the storm. Rob climbed up onto the ledge and ducked beneath the overhanging rock. On either side of the cave’s mouth, he saw driftwood and dry seaweed. That’s a good sign, he thought. They’d have a fire.
He tried to ease the boy down, but the scrawny thing slid off and fell onto the hard rock. Immediately, the boy scrambled onto his knees, retching and coughing.
Rob walked into the cave as far as the dim light coming in from the outside allowed. The place was high enough and dry enough to provide shelter from the tide and the storm. He turned around. The boy was curled up against a wall by the cave entrance, hugging his thin legs, shivering.
“There’s enough driftwood here to make a fire. What’s your name?” Rob couldn’t hear the answer. He gathered up dried sticks and seaweed, piled them near the lad, and took out his flint and dagger. “Your name?”
“Gavin.” He continued to shiver.
“You’re quite the brave one, Gavin. I’ll give you that.”
Shredded sea grass caught the spark and flared. Rob added seaweed that smoldered, popped, and began to burn. Steadily, he added more fuel until a small blaze lit the cave. Larger pieces of driftwood were soon popping violent sparks and throwing off blue and lavender flames.