Rose_A Scottish Outlaw

by Lily Baldwin

Another knock sounded. “Enter,” he barked.

  A thin, freckled face slowly peered around the door. “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Tristan took a deep breath. He could tell his brash tone had startled his cabin boy. “You needn’t apologize, Simon.” He held up the letter in his hand. “A matter of grave importance has vexed me, but it is my problem, not yours. What do you have to report?”

  A smile replaced Simon’s frown. “Nelson has spotted something drifting toward us.”

  Tristan dropped the letter on his narrow bed. “Let us go see what he has found.”

  Both Simon and Philip backed into the hallway, allowing Tristan to take lead up the stairs. Stepping onto the main deck, Tristan scanned his ship. His crew lined the starboard side, clearly struggling to see what Nelson had spotted from his high perch.

  Tristan cupped his hands around his mouth. “What do you see, Nelson?”

  A thin, grizzly face with a nearly toothless grin smiled down at him over the sides of the crow’s nest, but, an instant later, his smile vanished as the line he held slipped from his gnarled fingers. Quickly, Nelson scampered from his perch and nimbly crossed the yard, seizing the line before he climbed back into the lookout. Tristan grinned up at the ancient sailor whose wiry body moved like a man a quarter of his age.

  Again, the weathered face peered down from above. “Can’t say for certain yet, Captain, but there’s something adrift out there.” Then he pointed up to the twilight-blue sky. “’Tis a blessing it be summer, and the moon is full. Whatever sails this way will not be able to sneak up on us. I’ll see it first.”

  “Good man,” Tristan called. “Keep your eyes starboard. I wait for your report.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  Tristan crossed the main deck and climbed the stairs to the forecastle and was soon joined by Philip. Keeping his eyes trained on the shadowy sea, Tristan said to his quarter master, “I must find a way out of this betrothal without shaming my father.”

  “Shaming him?” Philip said, the incredulity in his tone drew Tristian’s gaze. “Captain, if you refuse this betrothal, your father could be thrown in the stocks or imprisoned. By the Saints, you speak of breaking a contract with nobility. His very life may be forfeit and yours.”

  Tristan gripped the ship’s rail, releasing a frustrated growl. “There must be a way. You know Baron Roxwell’s character. He’s a deplorable man. His own gambling and greed has brought his family low enough that he would consider betrothing his daughter to a commoner.”

  Philip arched his brow at him. “You may not be of noble birth, but I would hardly call you common. You are wealthier than many lords.”

  Tristan threw his hands up. “What does it matter? I refuse to bind myself to such a ruthless family. Baron Roxwell is the epitome of all I despise in their class.”

  Philip looked at him dead on. “I’m sorry, Captain. The only way this match might have been avoided is if you were already married when the message arrived.”

  Tristan fisted his hands together. “I’m not married as you well know. Do not tell me there is no other way.” He expelled a long breath, trying to regain control. Staring out to sea, he strained to see the object drifting near, but nothing broke the calm surface. Gentle waves lapped against the hull.

  “You could always get married,” Philip suggested.

  Tristan turned and raised a brow at him. “Isn’t it rather late for that?”

  Philip shrugged. “As you’ve said, you are leagues away from London. No one of consequence could account for the last year of your life. Who’s to say you weren’t married when we arrived at Port Rìgh.”

  Tristan shook his head. “I see where you’re going with this, but let us hurry to the part where we dismiss your idea. If I knew a woman I wished to marry, I would have done so already. Anyway, you know my mind on marriage. I am a man of the sea.”

  Philip crossed his arms over his chest. “Marrying anyone else would be better than Abigail Roxwell. I heard she had her serving maid flogged for plucking her eyebrows too thin.”

  Tristan groaned and bent forward, letting his forehead rest on the rail. “I agree with your logic, but I refuse to be forced into one marriage to escape another.” Damn Owen and his stubborn hypocrisy. Tristan stood straight and raked his hand through his hair. “It astounds me that my father can be so sensible in every other regard but his ambition to elevate his family to nobility. He cannot see his own folly.”

  “Mayhap, there is another way,” Philip murmured.

  Tristan watched his quarter master slowly pace the forecastle. “Yes, indeed, it just might work.”

  “What are you mumbling about?” Tristan said impatiently.

  Philip whirled around, his eyes gleaming. “You could falsify a wedding.”

  Had his quarter master gone daft? “What are you talking about? Falsify a wedding? What is that supposed to even mean?”

  A slight smile curved Philips lips. “Yes!” he said, clearly approving his own plan before Tristan even understood it.

  “Don’t you see?” Philip blurted, his face now flushed with excitement.

  “No, I don’t see,” Tristan snapped. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Philip grinned. “You could feign being married to someone.”

  Tristan slowly shook his head. He couldn’t believe what Philip had just proposed. “You’ve lost your mind, old friend.”

  “Do not dismiss my idea so quickly, not until you consider it from all angles.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are proposing I pretend to have a wife. From every angle that is lunacy.”

  Philip shrugged. “Desperate times.”

  Tristan raised his eyes heavenward. “The notion of a fake bride is ridiculous, not to mention blasphemous.”

  “No,” Philip snapped. “You marrying Lady Roxwell is ridiculous, not to mention abhorrent, immoral, unthinkable—”

  “Enough,” Tristan snapped. It pained him that Philip did not exaggerate. By all accounts, Abigail was entirely lacking in merit, which was no surprise to Tristan. He had witnessed precious little nobility among the noble class.

  “There must be another way.” He looked out to sea. “Give me the answer,” he prayed aloud.

  Philip moved to stand next to him. “Pray to the sea all you like, but the more I think on it, the more I am certain marital pretense is the answer.”

  He scowled at Philip, then turned back to the sea and added to his prayer. “And find me a new quarter master.”

  Philip flashed a wide grin. “You say that now, but once you think on it, you’ll realize my genius.” A moment later, Philip’s smile faded, and his countenance grew serious. “Tristan, this truly could be the only way to save your family and yourself. It is a simple enough plan. All you need is a woman.”

  Tristan made a show of looking around the deck at the rough-speaking, weathered sailors, moving about their duties. “And where exactly am I going to find a woman?” he asked.

  “Captain,” Nelson called down.

  Tristan turned and looked to the top of the wide, square mast. “Aye, Nelson. What do you see?”

  “Not sure, Captain,” came his reply. “But…but I think it could be…a woman.”

  Tristan and Philip locked eyes. Both men stood frozen. Then, a slow smile spread across Philip’s face. “It looks like the sea has answered your prayer after all, Captain.”

  Chapter Two

  Tristan paced the narrow, short hallway outside the door to his quarters, two steps in one direction, then two in the other while he waited for his surgeon to provide him with an update on the mystery woman’s condition. They had already surmised that she must have been traveling with her family between the isles, mayhap to visit children who had moved away. Alternatively, she may have gained passage on a ferry boat, again to visit family or some such matter. Their ship may have struck a rock or was overturned by a storm.

  The only real certitude—she was the
lone survivor.

  He could only imagine how dreadful her experience had been. When they had pulled her on board, she was conscious but only barely, and her skin had been like fire to touch, despite the chill of the sea.

  Tristan jerked around when he heard the door open.

  His surgeon, an older man with a ring of white, wispy hair around his bald head, joined him in the confined passage.

  “How is she?” Tristan asked.

  Robert Appleby wiped his hands on his waxed leather apron. “Her fever will not break. No sooner do I manage to get a drop of ale down her throat, than she spits it back up.” He shook his head. “Her condition is grave, I fear.”

  Tristian racked his brain. “Surely, there must be more we can do.”

  Robert lifted his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Captain, but who can say how long the poor thing was drifting upon the open water, exposed to the sun and the weather. All we can do is try to keep her calm and cool, and most importantly, she must drink something.” Robert swiped his sleeve across his forehead, soaking up beads of sweat that dotted his weary brow. “I need to stretch my legs and use the privy.”

  Tristan nodded. “I will stay with her.”

  “You will find a bowl with water and a rag on the floor near your bed. Keep her cheeks cool.” Robert took a step farther into the hall, but he teetered. Tristan reached out to steady him. “My foot fell asleep,” Robert explained. Then he gave Tristan a pointed look. “Build larger cabins in your next ship.”

  “Agreed,” Tristan promised.

  Most of the space in the hull was reserved for cargo, allowing for only four small rooms below the main deck, one for himself, a room for his quarter master, another for the ship’s surgeon, and the galley. The rest of his crew slept beneath the fore and stern castles on the main deck. Tristan’s own room was fitted with a narrow bed, which was nailed into the wall; a slim stand with a pitcher, the legs of which were nailed to the floor, and a small desk where he kept his charts and contracts, which was built right into the hull. The floor space remaining was significantly smaller than the hallway. Regrettably, pacing would not be an option. Taking a deep breath, Tristan opened the door to his cabin.

  His eyes widened when he saw the woman. Her hair was still damp. Dark red curls splayed across his pillow. A bandage covered the gash on her brow. Her head thrashed from side to side, and her body trembled. His chest tightened at the sight of her suffering. Straightaway, he dropped to his knees and snatched the rag from the wooden bowl. Squeezing out the excess water, he dabbed her cheek.

  The moment the cloth touched her skin, her eyelids flew open.

  He gasped, surprised by her sudden awakening and struck by the vibrant blue color of her eyes, apparent even in the soft glow of candlelight. But more than that, it was the pain he glimpsed in their stormy depths that made his breath catch.

  She grabbed his tunic, pulling her face close to his. “Where are my girls?” she rasped. She held his gaze. Her whole body shook. Her eyes were pleading, desperate.

  “I…I do not know,” he stammered.

  A breath later, her eyes rolled back as she collapsed on the bed. He pressed his ear to her chest and blew out a breath of relief when he heard her heartbeat. It was weak, but still, she lived.

  Where are my girls?

  Searing heartbreak coursed through him as he guessed she referred to other passengers lost in the wreck. Could her daughters have been on board?

  He sat back on his heels and reached for the mug of ale on his desk. Then he eased his arm behind her head and lifted her so that she might swallow safely. When he tilted the cup, she sputtered, and just as Robert had described most of what he poured down her throat came right back up. Still, he administered the ale, every precious drop counted.

  Trading the mug for the damp rag, he tried to cool her burning cheeks, but she began to thrash more violently, her head rocking from side to side, her brows drawn together in a constant expression of anguish. Her troubled sleep seemed riddled with demons willing her to surrender to whatever torture they inflicted. He leaned close to her ear. “Do not give up,” he whispered. “Fight on!”

  After more than an hour passed, he stood and stretched. There was hardly space enough for his large frame on the floor near the bedside. He hadn’t noticed the cramping in his muscles until she had suddenly grown quiet. He took a deep breath as he stared down at her. At the very least, she appeared almost peaceful. Her head no longer thrashed from side to side, but her mutterings continued. Mostly, her words were incoherent, although every now and then he heard a word or name. Ian. Destiny.

  “Let me take over, Captain.”

  He turned around, surprised to find Robert standing in the doorway.

  “I didn’t hear you come down the stairs,” Tristan said before returning his gaze to the woman’s face. He knelt again and smoothed back her red curls. Her pallor had not improved. Ruddy, sunburned patches contrasted with deathly white splotches. Still, her condition could not diminish her beauty. Long, thick dark lashes fanned across her cheeks. Her nose was small and pert, and full lips moved as she continued to whisper. The lines at her eyes and those framing her mouth revealed her advancing years. He guessed she was only a few years younger than him.

  “Has she gained consciousness?” Robert asked.

  He shook his head. “She opened her eyes but for only a moment.”

  “You should know that the men are talking,” Robert warned. “They fear she is a bad omen. Some worry she’s a silky or a lost princess.”

  Tristan arched a brow at him. “Would a princess wear homespun wool and have calloused palms?”

  “These are not my fears,” Robert said. “She is clearly a commoner, although there is nothing common about her appearance. She’s beautiful.”

  “Striking,” Tristan said absently. He could hardly tear his eyes away. He hung on her every breath, waiting, praying for her to take her next one. “I would like to stay with her.”

  “I’m afraid you must step outside into the hall,” Robert replied, drawing his gaze. “I’ve made a fresh poultice for her chest that should aid her breathing. There is simply not room for two men in here.”

  Tristan scanned his close quarters. Robert was right, of course. He hated to go, but he knew she needed the surgeon’s skills. Leaning over her, his lips grazed her ear as he whispered, “Fight on.” Then he pushed against the bed to stand. He squeezed past Robert but hesitated in the doorway. Looking back, he said, “Do everything you can to save her.”

  Robert nodded. “I will do my best.”

  Tristan stepped into the hallway and renewed his pacing, but several minutes later, he stopped, knowing he was going to drive himself mad. He peered into his room. “I’m going aloft,” he said. “Fetch me if her condition changes.”

  His gaze settled once more on her lovely face. Praying it was not the last time he saw her alive, he forced himself to close the door before heading up to the main deck.

  Chapter Three

  Rose’s head pounded. She strained to lift her eyelids, but they were too heavy. Her heart started to race faster. She wanted to sit up, but she could barely move her fingers. She tried to speak, but her lips wouldn’t part, nor could she peel her dry tongue off the roof of her mouth. It was too much, too hard. A pang of regret struck her heart as she surrendered once more to darkness.

  Shrill cries echoed in the distance. “I am coming,” her heart screamed, her arms outstretched, desperate to save her babies, but no matter how fast she raced through the shadows, she could never reach them. Sorrow dragged her down, stealing her strength. Her own sobs mingled with those of her children while she trudged through a thick bog of despair.

  “No more,” her heart screamed.

  Again, she stirred, her head still pounding. She tried to open her eyes, only this time her lids lifted slightly. A blur of light and shadow crossed her vision, and then a shape came into focus. An older man with soft blue eyes and a bald head glinting in the dim light smiled down
at her.

  “Hello there,” he said softly. His wide grin dimpled his plump cheeks.

  The light hurt her head. She closed her eyes, and again she tried to speak. Her thick tongue refused to move. Desperate tears stung her eyes, but then she felt pressure behind her neck. Her head lifted, and the rim of a bowl pressed to her mouth. Straining, she parted her lips, inviting the drink to enter. Wetness struck her tongue and throat. It felt so good that she wanted to cry. She opened her eyes again. This time she could tolerate the light. Her gaze passed over the friendly face in front of her before she scanned her crowded, windowless surroundings. Her gaze returned to the looming face. She opened her mouth to ask where she was, but the words would not come. Lifting her head, she struggled to sit up. Her mounting fear made her heart race faster.

  “There, there,” the man said, his soft voice cutting through her panic. “Lay back down. You are safe now, but it is too soon to try to speak. Rest, and later today or tomorrow you can tell us how you came to be adrift on the open sea.” He smiled down at her. “I will go tell the captain that your fever has finally broken. He will be very pleased.” Then the man turned and left.

  While she lay there, her unfamiliar surroundings blurred. Her eyes closed as if of their own accord. Waves lulled her toward sleep.

  Waves?

  Her eyes opened.

  Captain?

  A ship—she must be on a ship.

  But how did she get there?

  The slatted wood surrounding her grew hazy. Her lids were so heavy. She closed her eyes once more and allowed the rocking ship to bring her mind back to the last thing she remembered. She had been standing on the beach, staring up at the moon as she always did. Her heart had felt empty, and then Ian had come to her and given her a gift…Aye, he had given her a skiff.

  The skiff.

  Suddenly, she remembered…

  Ian left Colonsay to answer Abbot Matthew’s call. Scotland needed him. But his leaving broke Rose’s already shattered heart. That night, she lay on her pallet, her heart pounding in her chest, wishing that Ian was still on the isle or better yet that she had been able to go with him. Just as she was sinking into fresh despair, she remembered what Abbot Matthew had told Ian. “God is like the stars guiding a man’s ship, but it is the man who makes his own destiny.”