by Lily Baldwin
Her interest piqued, she turned on her side and looked at him. “How?”
Quinn shrugged. “He has never opened up about what actually goes on in his dreams only what they’ve revealed.”
“And what do they reveal?”
“Truth,” Quinn said. “Answers to troubling questions. His dreams have even revealed that which has yet to be told. A dream showed him the destruction of Berwick before Edward had arrived with his legions outside the city limits.”
Her eyes widened. “He foresaw the massacre?”
“In a manner of speaking. His dream did not reveal Edward’s attack, only the aftermath, the slaughter and wreckage.”
She shivered, and her heart soften toward Alec. It must be a great burden to carry so much weight within one’s soul. It was no wonder Alec seemed so cold, especially when compared to Rory.
“Is Rory as rakish as I imagine him to be?” she said.
“Rory is reckless more than anything.”
“Was he a sailor like you?”
Quinn shook his head. “Nay, he worked on the docks alongside my father. He had no wish to be trapped, as he saw it, at sea. He seldom strayed far from the city, from his friends and lovers.”
She blushed. “Did he take many lovers.”
Quinn turned his head and looked at her. “A few,” he said.
“What about you?” she asked.
He smiled. “What about me?”
She held her breath, fighting for the courage to speak her mind. “Have you loved someone before,” she blurted at last.
“I have cared for women,” he said. “But I was a sailor and never in one place long enough for love.”
She rolled onto her back to hide the smile his answer fixed to her lips. “Were you lonely?”
Again, his deep voice flowed through her. “I missed my family, but I loved being at sea. It gets into yer soul—the power of the ocean and exploring marvelous new places. People always looked and sounded so different everywhere we went. And yet whenever we would dock for a stretch, I would see that people everywhere were actually all the same. People working, caring for their families, moving from one day to the next with mostly the same concerns, same worries, same joys. I would love for ye to see for yerself,” he said.
“Me on a ship?” she scoffed.
“What would ye say, if I asked ye to set sail with me for distant shores?”
She turned and looked at him. “Several days ago, I would have been scandalized and terrified—shamefully in that order.”
“And now?” he asked softly, reaching his hand across the great divide.
A flutter of wistful excitement coursed through her. She stretched out her arm, her fingertips grazing his. “Now, I wish I could have been with you.”
*
They remained in Catarina’s decorated cave for nearly three weeks. Quinn relished watching her increased satisfaction as her command of humble tasks grew. More than that, he enjoyed the ease of her bearing. There was a sudden lightness about her, and he knew much of her changed demeanor was because of their tranquil Eden. They had made a flower-scented hideaway, but he knew they could not stay in that place for much longer. Just that morning, he had found horse tracks in the woods where he hunted.
“Riders passed nearby during the night,” he said before biting a bannock hot off the fire.
Her shoulders tensed but only for a moment. “So we push on,” she said.
“Ye’re not upset?” he asked.
She shrugged, a sad smile curving her lips. “I know we cannot stay here forever, nor would I wish it so. James is not here. There is no true haven without him.”
Quinn dusted the crumbs off his fingers. “That settles it then. We set sail in the morning for Caithness.”
After they had settled on their separate blankets for the night, Catarina laid with her elbows beneath her head. “Tell me a story,” she whispered in the darkness. Several moments passed, and then his voice, deep but soft, reached her ears.
“When my older sister, Rose, was a lass, she used to stand on the tweed dock where the river met the tide and watch the ships come in and out of port—or so that was what she told my mum and da. But I knew the truth. She used to take me with her so that she did not feel so alone, I just five and she no older than ten. She’d let me skip rocks, though I could not roam far, mind.” He laughed softly. “I suppose my love for ships started in this way, but, as I’ve said, it was not the merchant vessels that drew my sister’s tireless gaze.”
“What did?” Catarina said.
“Love,” Quinn said simply.
Catarina’s eyes widened. She sat up to look at him, though his features were obscured by shadow. “But you said she was only ten.”
“At the time, she had no one in particular in mind,” he said, laughing again. “But one day she did confide in me. She had dreamt that love would come to her from the sea.”
Catarina lay back down and smiled at the image of a young girl staring wistfully out to sea. “What does Rose look like? Is she dark haired like you?”
“Nay, she and my youngest brother, Ian, have fiery red hair and blue eyes and both with tempers to match.”
“And is that how Rose met her husband? Did he wash up on the banks of the River Tweed?”
He did not answer straightaway, and Catarina remembered that Rose’s husband and her three daughters were all slain during the massacre. “Her husband was a carpenter and did not like the sea at all,” he said. “’Tis no surprise though. Rose does not share Alec’s queer gift of sight. Her dream was likely just that—a dream.”
Catarina smiled, her eyes feeling heavy. “Mayhap the tide will bring Rose new love.” And she drifted off to sleep lulled by the steady refrain of the North Sea.
Chapter Fifteen
Quinn eyed the teeming cliffs of Caithness, marveling at the wild beauty of crashing waves, tall caves with sharp jutting teeth, vibrant blue pools, and whirling eddies. Fragrant breezes puffed against their sail as he waited for a strip of shore upon which to land. He glanced back at Catarina. She craned her neck back, staring wide-eyed at the imposing cliffs. And then a distant rumbling broke her trance. They locked eyes.
“Horses,” Quinn said. He quickly lowered the sail. “Get down,” he told her, his voice calm yet firm. She crouched in the hull, curling into a ball. Then he tossed one of the blankets over her. “Do not move unless I tell ye to.”
The pounding of hooves grew closer. He reckoned they were just beyond the cliffs. Readying his bow, he kept his eyes fixed on the ridge above. The Sinclairs were not the only highlanders to occupy the northeasterly tip of Scotland. Anyway, he knew better than to assume the best from any unknown. The thundering drew closer to the edge. Quinn hunkered down to give the potential enemy less of a target, but just then a stag came hurtling over the side and smacked the surface of the water, creating a terrific splash. Quinn sat back on his heels in amazement, locking eyes with the lifeless stare of the large horned animal. A chorus of deep voices speaking Gaelic rang out from above, drawing his gaze an instant before several men peered over the cliff edge, their long hair catching in the wind.
One of the men called down to Quinn.
He held up his hands. “I’m afraid I do not understand what ye said.”
The biggest of the lot pulled out a crossbow and took aim at Quinn. Then in English, he said, “Before ye get any ideas, the stag is ours.”
Quinn dropped his bow and held up his hands. “I’ve no interest.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “How can ye have no interest, lowlander? Do ye not eat?”
Quinn continued to hold his hands aloft. “Aye, I do, but I reckon it would be my last meal, and I’d rather live on if ‘tis all the same to ye lot. Ye can trust I won’t be taking what’s yers.”
“What’s yer name?”
“MacVie, Quinn MacVie.”
“Outta my way,” someone behind the men said. Then a familiar face peered down. “My eyes are conjuring ghosts. Quinn Mac
Vie is that really ye?”
Quinn sagged with relief when he saw Hamish smiling down at him. “Aye, Hamish Sinclair. ‘Tis I.”
“I thought ye died along with the rest of those poor souls in Berwick.”
Quinn shook his head and stretched his arms wide. “Ye can see I’m still as alive as any man.”
Hamish smiled. “And glad I am for that. What about yer brothers and Rose and Roslyn.”
Quinn’s smile faded. “Only my brothers and Rose survived.”
Hamish frowned and made the sign of the cross. “Poor souls,” he said, and hung his head for several quiet moments. Then he looked up and with his next breath, Hamish asked, “But what are ye doing here? ‘Tis quite a journey ye’ve made.”
Quinn smiled. “I came to find ye.”
“Yer in trouble then,” Hamish said knowingly.
Quinn shrugged but offered no reply.
“Ye can keep yer silence but only if ye save me the trouble of taking a swim. Tie the stag to yer wee ship. In less than a quarter of a league the cliffs slope down and ye’ll find a strip of shore.”
Quinn glanced at the heap of blankets concealing Catarina. “I have something with me, something I treasure a great deal,” he said cautiously.
“Ye’ve not to fear, my friend. Yer safe on Sinclair land. I trust my men with my life.”
Hamish’s promise lightened Quinn’s heart. He and Catarina would be able to bide their time hidden among the Sinclairs until Quinn could think of a way to clear Catarina’s name and bring the real murderer to justice; that is, if Hamish was still the decent man Quinn remembered. “Stay beneath the blankets for now,” Quinn whispered. “I wish to look Hamish in the eye to make sure he’s the same man I once knew.”
Her reply was muffled. “Do you think he could be so very altered?”
“Time changes us all, and hardship can strip away a man’s compassion. Brother Matthew told me once that apathy is only a step removed from wickedness.”
The blanket shook as Catarina chuckled. “Is this Brother Matthew a real monk?”
He reached down and pinched what he hoped was her round bottom, earning a squeal for his efforts.
Huddled in the dark, Catarina listened to the water lapping against the sides of the ship.
“The wind has picked up,” Quinn said. “I can see the shore up ahead.”
“Can I come out now,” she asked, beginning to overheat beneath the warm sun and the wool blanket.
“Stay hidden until I say, and when ye do come out try not to talk. That old tunic does little to conceal who ye really are.”
She knocked forward when the skiff hit sand, but she managed to swallow the subsequent groan of pain. Holding her breath, she listened to the nicker of horses and their stomping hooves.
“Quinn MacVie,” a man said.
“Hamish Sinclair, ye cannot imagine my relief to be standing here with ye.”
“Given yer leagues from home and alone in a rickety old shame of a skiff, I believe I have an idea.” His accent was very thick. She had to concentrate to understand his words.
“Now that is not entirely true,” she heard Quinn say. “I am not alone.”
Nerves twisted her stomach. She felt Quinn’s hand rest on her back through the blanket. “Ye can come out now. ‘Tis safe.”
Catarina gasped, instantly wanting to swoop the covers back over her head. Never had she seen men so wild looking. She was surrounded by them. They leaned forward in their saddles, eying her.
“She’s a pretty lass to be sure.”
Catarina sat up and stiffened her back. She opened her mouth to tell the beastly looking man that it was unkind to stare, but Quinn reached out his hand to her, cutting off her speech. “Come, lass. Let me help ye ashore, and then I can properly introduce ye to my friend.”
Catarina did her best to smile graciously as she placed her hand in Quinn’s.
Once on dry land, he wrapped his arm around her waist and presented her to the Hamish. “This is Katie, my bride.”
She jerked around, looking at Quinn with eyes wide. “But—” Before she could finish, Quinn smothered her protest with a kiss. Cheers erupted from the men. She opened her eyes as Quinn’s soft, full lips lifted from hers. “Trust me,” he whispered.
Hamish slapped Quinn on the back, a smile stretched his rugged features wide. “’Tis sorry I am to hear she’s spoken for—sorry for myself that is,” Hamish said, winking at Catarina. “Had ye been free, I would have claimed ye here and now.”
She did not bother concealing her surprise as she stared up at the large, harry man. Stepping closer to Quinn, she placed her hand in his. “I told ye,” he said, smiling down at her. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“We’ve had a long journey, Hamish. Do ye think we could rest a bit and have something hot to eat.”
“Aye, my friend. Come along. We’ll get ye feeling fresh as the new heather.”
Catarina watched the Highland village unfold with fascination. It was nearing the end of June. The fields were lush and ripe with honey colored wheat and bright yellow flax. The periphery of the village was enclosed within a stonewall. It did not have the defensive height of a castle or fortress outer wall, but when they passed through the gate Catarina noticed that the ground on the other side of the gate was elevated, giving the advantage of height to those on the inside. Small, stone cottages with thatched roofs dotted the interior. Chickens, cattle and goats all moved freely, just like the children—most of whom wore naught but smiles on their faces as they played in the early summer sun. They passed through yet another wall, which again was not impressive in height, but the ground on the other side was once more elevated. Still, more cottages came into view and longer huts made of peat and thatch, which she assumed were used as stores or for gatherings. And then they crossed through yet another stonewall, stepping onto higher ground where she spied the only two-story dwelling.
“First, I’ll present ye to my father,” Hamish said to Quinn. “And then I will show ye where ye can bed down.”
His words made Catarina’s spirit soar. To sleep on a bed would be such a welcome respite from weeks sleeping on the hard earth. They passed through what she deemed the equivalent of a small courtyard where a large skinned cow was roasting on a spic. The scent made her stomach growl. They walked on and spotted more animals roasting and more people milling about with purpose.
“What is the day?” she whispered to Quinn
“I would guess the twenty-second of June,” Quinn said.
Her spirits lifted. “They must be preparing for St. John’s Eve?”
Quinn nodded.
“Then what I was told about Highlanders is false.”
“What is it ye were told?” Quinn asked
Catarina leaned close and whispered, “That they were savages and heathens.”
Quinn threw his head back and laughed.
“Hush,” she said, looking pointedly at Hamish in the lead.
Quinn smiled. “Ye’ll never meet finer folk than Highlanders,” he whispered. “Ye’ll enjoy the festivities. Ye’ll find ‘tis a blending of the old and the new.”
“You always seem to have all the answers,” she said, smiling up at him. “How is it that a fisherman and a peasant knows so much?”
He took her hand in his. “Captain Bellerose taught me how to read and write and how to navigate with the stars.” He shrugged. “I’ve a curious nature, I suppose.”
They walked into the large, rustic dwelling. A great room stretched out before them with a massive hearth filling one side, and in front of that Catarina glimpsed the high dais where an older couple sat.
She felt Quinn’s lips brush her ear. “Remember yerself. Yer Katie, a common lass. Show the laird every due respect. Be humble and…”
“And what?” she whispered when he hesitated.
“Roughen up yer speech if ye can.”
Catarina nodded, although she had no idea how to ‘roughen up her speech’. Instead, she made
up her mind to remain silent.
“Father, this here is Quinn MacVie. We sailed together on La Vierge under Captain Bellerose. And the pretty lass at his side is his wife, Katie. She hails from Berwick. Her father was an English sailor and her mother an Italian merchant’s daughter.”
Catarina squeezed Quinn’s hand. She had not realized that Quinn had given her a new family history. Glancing sidelong at Quinn, she saw he bowed to the laird. In turn, she dipped into a low curtsy, her eyes sweeping over Laird William Sinclair. She would guess he had more than fifty years to his credit. His eyes were a foggy blue color, but she imagined in his youth they would have been as vibrant as a summer’s sky. He had a thick, gray beard that fanned out from his chin, covering much of his chest. His shoulders, although still broad, stooped a little, and when he stood and walked toward them, he did so with a pronounced limp.
“MacVie is a name I hold dear,” the laird said, crossing to stand in front of Quinn. He gave Catarina a hard, sidelong look. “Normally, I’d no be inviting a Sassenach onto my land, but ye must have some sense for marrying this good man,” he said, slapping a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Indeed, ye’re both most welcome.” He let out a rumble of laughter before turning and motioning for the woman still seated at the high dais to join them. Laird Sinclair extended his hand for the older woman when she drew closer. Then he turned back to Quinn and Catarina, and presented her as, Lady Joan, his wife. Lady Joan had long, black hair, streaked with silver, which she wore unbound. And on her head, she wore a small, white head covering that several of the women in the village had also worn.
Joan dipped her head to Quinn and smiled warmly. “I’ve often wondered whether I would have the opportunity to thank the man who saved my son’s life.”
Catarina’s eyes widened in surprise, which had not gone unnoticed by Joan.
“Yer husband did not tell ye about his brave actions on board La Vierge?”
Catarina shook her head and smiled, choosing not to speak.
Joan stepped close to Quinn and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she smiled at Catarina. “A line broke, and the boom of one of their ship’s sails swung wide, hitting Hamish in the head and dragging him overboard. Quinn jumped in after him and held Hamish afloat until the rest of the crew could haul them both out of the water.” Joan smiled at her. “Ye’ve found yerself a good man.” She cupped Catarina’s cheek. “I can tell ye’re weary. Hamish will lead ye to where ye can rest and have a meal.”
