“We’ll have to search for men.” Darroc threw on his plaid, dressing with all speed. “There could still be—”
“We needn’t bother.” Mungo sounded sure. “There’s none left alive. ’Tis the wood what’s the reason I came to fetch you.”
Darroc looked up, his foot halfway into a cuaran. “The wood?”
“Aye, just!” Mungo tossed Frang another angry look when the dog flew off the bed, almost knocking him down. “The beach is covered with broken spars and pieces of the hull and deck. Some barrels and casks, and there’s more in the water. To my way of thinking, we can profit from the refuse. Salvage what’s no’ too damaged and turn a good coin.”
Darroc stared at him.
Mungo grinned.
“You’re mad.” Darroc finished lacing his shoes and strode for the door. “MacConachers don’t line their purses with another man’s loss.”
Mungo hurried after him. “Then what’ll you do?” He kept pace, following Darroc into the darkened stair tower. “Let valuable wood rot on the strand?”
“To be sure, nae.” Darroc took the steps two at a time, Mungo and Frang close on his heels. And with each downward-winding spiral, the horror-filled cries of his dreams rushed back to him. Now he knew it hadn’t been the seals. Or even his imaginings. He’d heard the death throes of drowning men and the thought split him.
“We’ll no’ be wasting the wreck goods?” Mungo grabbed his arm as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “We don’t even know what’s in the barrels and casks. Could be fine Rhenish wine or—”
“We’ll burn it all, whate’er.” Darroc jerked free, his mind set. “But first we’ll say prayers over every stick of wood, blessing the lost cog and pleading mercy for the souls who went down with her.”
“You could use some of the wood to build a second birlinn.” Mungo hurried after him as he sprinted across the hall. “We all know you want—”
“What I want isn’t important.” Darroc’s voice hardened. “It’s about honor. Respect.”
Quickening his pace, he reached the hall door in a flash, flinging it wide. “Aught else is a betrayal of our name. What matters”—he threw Mungo a glance before he dashed down the outer stairs—“is making sure there’s no’ some poor soul out there who needs our help.”
“Humph.” Mungo sounded skeptical. “We can search the seas till the sun goes down and rises again and we’ll be finding naught but wind and cold!”
But a few moments later, as Darroc tore down the cliff path to the strand, he knew Mungo was wrong. For sure, the beach was awash with wreckage. And the morning was cold, the wind sharp and biting.
Yet there was something else.
Something uncanny.
Bells clanged from the deadly tidal rocks that rimmed the bay.
Hundreds by the sound of them and their ringing chilled him to the core. The clanging was horrible, the eerie noise branding itself into him just like the anguished cries he’d heard in the night.
Those screams, too, wouldn’t leave him. The memory burned inside him like a white-hot blaze.
“Ho, Darroc!” Conall ran up to him, the shovel in his hand revealing what he’d been about. “Belike yon bells are caught on the rocks, eh?”
“No’ for long they won’t be.” Darroc frowned at his cousin, then turned away to scan the choppy seas.
The very idea of allowing the bells to remain on the skerries curdled his blood.
The sound was unholy.
Wasting no time, he strode over to one of the smaller boats beached in the shallows. “Conall—grab a few extra oars or a pole we can use to unhook them and come!” He flung the order over his shoulder as he splashed into the water. “While we’re out there, we search for survivors.”
Conall tossed aside the shovel and wheeled to do his bidding. Darroc vaulted over the side of the bobbing skiff. Not to be left behind, Frang bounded into the water and launched himself into the little boat before anyone could stop him. Once settled, the dog’s expression said there’d be no point in trying to send him back to the beach.
As if to make that clear, Frang placed a possessive forepaw on one of the thwarts.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Knowing it, Darroc reached to rub his ears. “You think there’s someone out there, don’t you, old boy?”
Frang’s quick bark said he did.
Darroc thought so, too. The surety of it tightened his chest and rode his shoulders like a sack of stones. Heart racing, he grabbed the oars and pushed off. Conall plunged through the surf, two oars and a hook-ended pole tucked under his arm. Racing, he took a sailing dive and landed—albeit somewhat clumsily—in the boat.
“Whew!” He righted himself at once, his copper red hair glowing in the first glints of morning sun.
“Away!” Darroc claimed the stern bench and began rowing.
Conall joined in, his muscles bunching as he plied his oars. He matched his strokes to Darroc’s and they gained speed, soon approaching the narrows of the bay and the black glistening rocks beyond.
Moving fast, they shot past the bay’s enclosing cliffs and into open water. The wind caught them at once and they had to stay hard at the oars to swing the skiff toward the first of the looming skerries. Huge rollers crashed into the jagged rocks, the creaming waves leaving plumes of foam and froth in their wake.
Lashing spray drenched them, but they drove on, using the tidal flow to get as close as they dared. For the benefit of Conall, Darroc pulled with all his might, wrenching the little boat away from the sharp, seaweed-covered rocks and into the deep roll of a trough-like wave.
“Are you run mad?” Conall nearly fell off his thwart.
Frang barked excitedly.
The skiff bobbed in the rough seas, blessedly a safe distance from the death-bringing rocks. Darroc glanced round at the huge troughs, his relief so thick he could taste it on the back of his tongue. All around them, the wretched bells tolled. Had he been alone, he would have risked putting an end to the infernal ringing.
But with Conall and Frang onboard…
His throat closed on thinking how near to unnecessary danger he’d brought them.
“And now?” Conall huffed.
“Just pull with me.” Darroc gripped the oars tighter as the skiff plunged into a cresting wave. “It was a fool notion to try and get the bells. Yon skerries”—he flashed a glance at them—“are half submerged just now. At flood tide, only their tips will break the surface. I’m thinking the seas will wash away the bells—”
Someone on the shore yelled.
“Heigh-ho!” Conall glanced at the boat strand. “What are they going on about?”
Men dashed along the water’s edge, gesticulating. Dark figures limned against the high open hills rising behind the strand. Darroc understood their agitation, feeling it in his bones.
“There’s someone out here.” He shot to his feet, causing the skiff to tilt and dip. He twisted around, trying to see behind them, over the tossing waves.
But nothing stirred.
Only what looked to be a great number of bobbing wine casks or barrels.
Disappointed, he dropped back onto the thwart. “They’ll be hoping we pull in a few of those casks,” he said, flashing another glance at the men on the shore.
“Pah!” Conall rolled his eyes. “The tide will bring ’em in, sure enough. I’m for—”
It was then that Frang turned his head into the wind, nose high and quivering.
He barked madly, his stare fixed on the barrels.
Darroc looked again, shock slamming into him when he saw what appeared to be a clump of wet cloth spread across some of the barrels. Large cargo barrels that—he could see now—were lashed together like a raft.
“God be good—that’s a man!” He stared, horror stopping his breath.
“Nae.” Conall leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as they rowed furiously. “No’ unless he has breasts. I say that’s a woman!”
Darroc scarce heard him, so i
ntent was he on reaching the barrel raft. Even before they bumped up against it, he saw what his cousin meant. A young raven-haired woman lay on her back across the barrels, her face turned away from them, her long hair trailing in the water.
“Saints o’ mercy!” Darroc’s eyes rounded. “You’re right—it is a woman. Pray God she’s alive!”
Frang barked wildly, not even waiting for Darroc to grab the bow line and secure them to the odd raft. In a flash, he jumped onto the barrels, tail wagging.
As soon as he did, a tiny red-and-white dog crawled from beneath the edge of the woman’s sodden cloak. Shivering and bedraggled, the wee creature collapsed at Frang’s feet. Obviously female, the little dog gave a whimper and lifted her head to peer up at him, her liquid eyes adoring.
Frang threw a triumphant glance at the skiff and then turned a moony-eyed look on the smaller dog.
He was clearly in love.
Ignoring him, Darroc scrambled onto the raft and dropped to his knees beside the woman. His heart thundered, too, but for an entirely different reason. Was there a man living who could look on such a tragedy and not have his guts twist?
The woman was too still.
She wasn’t breathing.
Darroc reached for her, lifting her against him. She was cold, so cold. But the moment he touched her, something clenched inside him. Though near frozen—to him—she felt warm and vibrant, her pliant body molding to his. She’d been made for his arms. That surety filled him with dread. If she was dead, he knew a part of him would die, too.
Crazy as that was.
He looked down at her, everything in his world contracting until he only saw her beautiful limp form. Her breasts pressed against him and he willed his warmth to flow into her. This couldn’t be the end for her. But she didn’t respond at all. Her head only lolled to the side, the silky mass of her raven hair spilling across her face.
“Lass.” He held her gently, fearing of hurting her as he slicked back her long, tangled tresses. Sooty lashes rested against her smooth, white cheeks and her lips were sweetly curved and full. She was lovely. More perfect in her beauty than a living soul had a right to be.
Darroc’s heart seized, the thought chilling him.
Surely the gods wouldn’t damn her because of her exquisiteness?
Praying it wasn’t so, he felt along her throat, hoping for a pulse.
Blessedly, there was one.
“Conall!” He flashed a glance at his cousin, still in the skiff. “Toss me your spirit costrel!”
But even as Conall unfastened the flask from his sword belt and sent it arcing through the air, the woman stirred in Darroc’s arms, moaning.
Her eyes fluttered open. Deep blue eyes, dark as the sea, and filling with panic as she glanced about, trying to focus. “Mina…”
Darroc stared down at her and a wild, whirling sense of inevitability seized him. He fell into those haunted, sapphire eyes, losing himself. Heat, blazing hot, whipped through him, searing his soul.
Heart pounding, he snatched up the costrel from where it’d landed and, unstopping it, tipped the flask to the woman’s lips. He forced the life-spending uisge beatha down her throat, willing the fiery spirits to revive her.
He knew who she was, though he couldn’t explain such a wonder.
Now that he’d found her, he wasn’t about to let her go.
He absolutely wasn’t going to let her die.
Not in a thousand lifetimes.
Chapter Five
Her name is Mina.”
Darroc let the words hang in the air, a shimmering statement.
Not that he thought Mad Moraig was paying him any heed. Lost in her own world, she’d occupy herself with Mina for days and nights to come. As he’d known she would even before he’d swept into the hall and raced up the tower stairs with the mysterious beauty.
Seeing him rush past, the hen wife had cried out and hobbled after them, climbing the stairs as quickly as her bent legs allowed.
Mad Moraig had a need to care for people.
Understanding her, Darroc always let her have her say. Even if sometimes, that meant undoing her goodness as soon as time and discretion allowed.
This was one of those times. So he stood in the center of his room, taking care—as the old woman had admonished him—to keep his back to the bed. Lady Mina lay there, no mere slip of a girl, but wondrously made and with her glorious hair now combed and spilling about her shoulders like a lustrous skein of firelit ebony. How he burned to smooth back those silky tresses and touch her gently, perhaps even kiss the sensitive hollow of her throat.
Truth was he ached to do a lot more.
But he was certain she was of gentle birth. Her elegant, unmarred hands bespoke her station. As did the fine weave of her ruined cloak and the delicate silk of her tattered night rail. The graceful lines of her face and her milky smooth skin were equally telling.
With surety, she was a lady.
She was also naked.
Gloriously so and—because of her condition—she was draped across the bed in a way that wasn’t good for him, her most intimate secrets fully exposed. His loins tightened and he bit back a groan. He couldn’t risk another look. He’d seen more than enough helping Mad Moraig undress her.
Mad Moraig fussed and fretted over her still. Clucking her tongue, applying her salves, and muttering words he didn’t attempt to understand.
“Did you hear, lambie?” Her reedy voice addressed her charge. “He’s for calling you Mina.”
Across the room, the little red and white dog gave an excited yip.
Darroc looked her way, his eyes widening to see her enthroned on Frang’s hearthside bed of ancient plaids. Frang sprawled on the floor rushes beside her, his head resting on his paws.
Thing was, Frang never laid on the rushes.
As a chiefly dog, Frang considered rush-lounging beneath his dignity. He had a pallet in every chamber and fiercely defended them all.
Darroc’s lips twitched.
How was it possible that one female—albeit a beauty—and a tiny dog not much larger than a squirrel could turn his world upside down so quickly?
He cast a glance at the room’s one opened window, pleased to see thick, rain-laden clouds scudding across the sky. A good steady downpour or even a bit of sleet would suit him well. With luck, the day’s increasing chill would temper the heat simmering inside him.
He almost threw back his head and laughed. There wasn’t anything simmerish about what was happening to him.
It felt more like a sunburst.
His brows snapped together. If he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a poet.
At least the bells had stopped ringing.
He shuddered, relieved that the horrible sound no longer filled his ears.
From behind him, he did hear Mad Moraig tsk-tsk’ing as she rummaged importantly in her healing basket. “This lassie willna be caring what we call her,” she trilled in her singsong voice, now dipping a cloth into a basin from the sound of splashing water. “The poor bittie be out o’ her head for the now. Eh, Mina?”
“Lady Mina.” Darroc knew the distinction wouldn’t mean anything to Mad Moraig. But he liked the feel of her name on his tongue. Saying it aloud also seemed to give life to her. Much as the uisge beatha in Conall’s costrel had put a spot of color into her cheeks.
Or so he told himself.
Unfortunately, the spirit-induced flush had faded quickly. And before he’d even moved her off the barrel raft and into the skiff, she’d once again slipped into darkness. Now she’d also been given a dose of Mad Moraig’s sleeping draught. And even though he knew the tincture caused a good part of her slumber, she looked way too lifeless.
Almost like the beautifully serene marble effigies on the tombs of great ones and other worthies.
The comparison squeezed his heart, especially now that he’d not just seen the perfection of her firm, round bosom and the voluptuous curve of her hips, but held her in his arms. His hands splayed acros
s her smooth and shapely thighs and—saints help him—catching that one fleeting glimpse of the silky black triangle of her female curls.
Darroc’s need flamed anew.
Furious, he looked up at the ceiling and clenched his fists.
He’d found her just hours ago and already his honor had flown out the window.
He frowned.
Only the lowest dredge would think of such things now. But how sweetly those glossy raven curls had beckoned. Until—with a sharpness that surprised him—Mad Moraig caught him staring and slapped a drying cloth across Mina’s naked hips, hiding her enticements.
Not that any length of linen could banish such sweetness from his mind.
Even now, two full candle notches later, awareness sizzled inside him, heating his blood and almost splitting him with sheer, unreasonable desire.
Her eyes also haunted him. Beautiful, and of the deepest blue he’d ever seen, unusually thick lashes and tiny flecks of gold made them even more remarkable.
He knew they’d stolen his soul.
Blowing out a hot breath, he tried to conjure the buxom nakedness of the last Norse wench he’d tumbled at Olaf Big Nose’s encampment. But the image wouldn’t come. He could only summon a blur of white limbs and flowing, flaxen hair. A flash of large, bouncing breasts and a face that was even more difficult to distinguish.
Mina blazed bright.
He saw her as clearly as if he still stood staring down at her. As if it were only moments ago when she’d moved so sinuously against him, hotly entwined and firing his dreams in ways no other woman had ever done.
She was a born siren.
She lay naked in his bed.
Darroc shoved a hand through his hair, frowning.
A man so long without a woman shouldn’t be presented with such temptation.
A Highlander never.
Knowing himself lost, he began to pace. Stalking about, perhaps counting his steps, would keep him from giving in to the urge to return to the bedside. There were other reasons for staying away.
He couldn’t bear to see the ugly gash just above her left knee.
Surely caused by the skerries or floating wreckage, the wound gaped deep and stretched up the inside of her thigh. And much as it had grieved him to discover the injury, the prospect of watching Mad Moraig’s shaky fingers probe and stitch the torn flesh was even worse.
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