She urged the horse to the end of gangplank, where he came to an abrupt halt and backed up a step. She had feared as much. Wide as the gangplank was, it still stretched across water. A horse not accustomed to such would be hard-pressed to be coaxed across it.
She gave a firm, gentle nudge with her heels and tightened the reins. “Come, Rab. ’Tis safe enough, I promise. We must get yer master to safety.”
“Rab,” Duncan said with a strained groan.
The horse’s head lifted, and his ears perked.
“Up the way, lad. Ye can do it.” Duncan patted the horse’s side, his chains rattling. “Come on, Rab. Have a go at it, lad.”
As docile as a lamb, the horse walked up the loading plank and clopped his way onto the deck.
Tait followed on his mount.
“Good lad,” Tilda said as she slid down from the saddle.
“Hobbs! Weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen,” Tait said as he dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to one of his men. He jabbed a thumb in Duncan’s direction. “To my quarters with him, then stable his mount astern with Pearl. Water and a good brushing for the horses, and fetch Reeves and Kips for the man, aye?” He turned to Tilda and smiled. “Back to yer da with ye, missy. We’ll keep yer white knight safe at the cove for a while. Once he’s regained his strength and things have quieted, we’ll bring him to Wrath Keep, aye?”
Tilda planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “Nay.”
“Nay?” Tait gave her the same look he’d always used when they were children, and she’d had the audacity to challenge him. He pointed toward the dock where the Mackenzie and his men waited, still astride their horses. “Yer da awaits ye, Tilda. Off wi’ ye now. We’ve no time to argue or play games.”
“I play no game.” Tilda allowed her gaze to follow the men as they helped Duncan to Tait’s quarters. “I claimed him as husband in front of one and all. That makes it so, and a good wife to him I intend to be.” She lifted her chin. “A wife’s place is at her husband’s side. We shall both be going to yer cove.” She had decided such yesterday eve, and her heart rested well with the decision. Aye and for sure, Agnes’s prophecy had come to pass.
“Oh no, ye wee minx.” Tait shook his head and stole another glance over the side of the ship at the Mackenzie. “Yer da waits for ye, and to yer da ye shall go. I’ll no’ be crossing the Mackenzie himself.”
“Tilda!” The Mackenzie’s roar came to her loud and clear from where he waited on the quay.
She looked his way, and he motioned for her to return to the dock. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she blew her father a kiss and shook her head.
The Mackenzie’s shoulders slumped, and he bowed his head. Without looking up, he gave it a slow, sad shake.
Tilda held her breath, praying Da would give his blessing. This had not been a part of their plan, and she well knew it. She walked to the side of the boat and clasped her hands on the railing. “Please, Da,” she whispered.
After a painfully long moment, the Mackenzie lifted his gaze to hers, raised his hand in the air with a solemn nod, then thumped his fist to his heart. Tears ached in her throat as she mimicked the gesture. Da understood and still loved her in spite of her headstrong ways. She felt better for his silent blessing. He’d already claimed Duncan as son and now, it would be so.
“Ye are a spoiled one,” Tait informed her. He jerked a thumb in the direction they’d taken Duncan. “Stay in me quarters and dinna ye dare come out until we reach the cove. My men willna appreciate yer presence. Bad luck to have a woman aboard, ye hear?”
Tilda didn’t bother with a response, just hurried aft to the captain’s quarters. A metallic clang, then a clattering of chains reached her from beyond the louvered doorway. She entered without knocking to find Duncan seated in a chair and slumped across one end of the heavy captain’s table in the center of the room.
A sleeveless, muscle-bound sailor crouched at Duncan’s feet, scowling at the shackles and chains. A small anvil sat on the floor beside him. The man glanced up at Tilda’s entrance, pushed himself to his feet, and grabbed his forelock. “Got the ones off his wrists, miss, but damned if the ones about his ankles ain’t a bugger for certain.” The sailor’s eyes flared wide, and his mouth dropped open. “Beggin’ yer pardon for me language, ma’am.”
“No offense taken, sir.” Tilda waved away the man’s apology. “Yer name, sailor?” If she was headed for Tait’s cove, she’d best learn the name of his men.
“Reeves, ma’am. Ship’s blacksmith.” He gave a respectful nod.
Heart aching at Duncan’s helpless, unconscious form sprawled across the table, she squatted down and examined the locks on the shackles. She’d picked a few locks during childhood. Become quite adept at it, in fact. Mother had ordered her kept out of Da’s study whenever he was away, and the servants had done their best to do so. The mean woman had also tried to keep her locked out of the library with the reasoning that all knowledge other than information regarding sewing, running a household, or having bairns was evil. The locks never prevailed.
Tilda glanced up at Reeves. “Have ye a slim bit of metal? Or mayhap even a nail?” She squinted closer at the lock. “Aye, a nail would work if not too large. It needs to be sturdy, mind ye.”
“Ye mean to pick the locks?” Reeves stared at her as though she’d just sprouted a second head.
“I mean to try,” Tilda said. “Ye said yerself these were giving ye trouble, did ye not?”
“Aye.” He shrugged. Bending to dig through his box of tools on the floor, he paused, squinted a fierce look at the locks, then returned to digging. “A nail, ye say?”
“Aye. One narrow in girth but stout.” Tilda rose, raked Duncan’s hair from his face, then pressed the backs of her fingers against his forehead. “No fever at least. Have water and linens already been sent for?”
“Aye,” Reeves said, still pawing through the good-sized crate of tools. “Water, linens, the surgeon, bread.” He spared a glance over his shoulder at Duncan. “Poor bugger looks as though he needs all that and more.” He flinched and bowed his head at Tilda. “Beggin’ yer pardon again, ma’am.”
“Reeves, I am not the sort of woman who takes insult at mere words in idle conversation.” She aimed her kindliest smile at the man, doing her best to put him at ease. “Unless those words are cursing me behind my back or to my face.”
It was a short trip to Tait’s cove, but a trip nonetheless. Hidden on a wee isle on the westernmost side of Orkney, the cove was a secluded place, known only to a chosen few. Perfect for the hiding of a pirate’s kingdom.
Reeves rewarded her with a chuckle, then returned to his crate. “This do?” he asked, holding up a long, narrow spike he’d fished from the depths of the box.
“Good enough.” Tilda took the nail and bent to the task. She tilted her head and listened close, working the slim bit of metal into one of the locks and twisting it. The tumblers were tight, riddled with corrosion from the looks of the lock. She resettled her grip on the padlock and worked the nail deeper into the mechanism. A click rewarded her efforts. She pulled the lock free on the cuff and tossed it to the floor toward Reeves. “A bit of scrap metal for ye, sir.”
Reeves scooped it up and tossed it into his tool crate. “Well done, m’lady.”
Tilda paused and pointed the nail at Reeves. “Ye may call me, Mistress Tilda or Mistress MacCoinnich.” Oh, she liked the sound of that. She blinked away the idle thought and fixed a stern look on Reeves. “Ye are not to call me Lady Tilda or m’lady, ye ken?”
Reeves bobbed his head. “Aye, ma’am.”
Satisfied that Reeves understood and would more than likely spread the word to the rest of the crew, she returned to freeing Duncan’s ankles from the shackles. She slipped the heavy irons free, then pushed them across the floor to Reeves. “No wonder he walked little more than a shuffle. Those weigh a fair amount.”
Reeves scooped up the chains and deposited them into the box. He hoisted it unde
r one arm, then bent and retrieved his small anvil. “Aye, ma’am. That they do. I shall relieve ye of this clutter and send Mr. Hobbs to check on yer other necessities.” He swaggered to the door, flipped the latch with his thumb, and pulled it open with his foot. With a polite bob of his head, he slipped out, letting the door swing shut behind him.
No wonder the man was the ship’s blacksmith. Stronger than an ox, and agile as a cat.
Tilda pushed up from the floor and checked on Duncan again. Still unconscious, his cheek rested on the table. She let her gaze travel across his face and back, cringing at the angry wounds and bruises. They had treated him ill. He’d been in the prison over a sennight. How long could a man survive with little food and water and an abundance of abuse? She had to get liquids in him, get him cleaned and salved, and get him to bed.
She hurried to the wall of drawers, tiny cabinets, and cubbyholes beside the good-sized captain’s bunk and searched through them. Surely, Tait kept whiskey, rum, or some such spirits in his cabin. She glanced back at Duncan, wishing Agnes were aboard. She would know the best herbs to use. She’d know the best broth to order.
A light pecking sounded at the door. “Quartermaster Josiah Hobbs, at yer service, ma’am,” said a voice from the other side.
Tilda hurried around the table and welcomed Mr. Hobbs inside. “I’m glad to meet ye, Mr. Hobbs. Ye may call me Mistress Tilda or Mistress MacCoinnich—whichever comes the easier.”
The tall, gangly man with a small round belly and graying mutton chops covering his jowls, ducked to keep from bumping his head as he stepped through the door. He smiled and gave her a curt bow. “Mistress Tilda it is, then.” He peered over her head and nodded in Duncan’s direction. “Seamus Hoyt, ship’s surgeon, he’s a’coming with bandages and salves. Cook’s got a hearty broth a cooking and set plenty a water to boil.” He nodded toward the table. “Kip’ll bring it soon as it’s ready and stay here with ye so’s ta help ye get the man abed once he’s been properly tended.”
They’d thought of everything. No wonder Tait thought so highly of his crew. Tilda motioned toward the wall of cabinets through which she’d been searching. “I was looking for whiskey or rum.” She swallowed as her gaze returned to Duncan’s raw back. “I believe he’ll need it once he wakes.”
Mr. Hobbs scowled. “Aye, I believe ye’ve the right of it there.”
A thumping sounded at the door followed by a high-pitched voice. “Hot water. Two kettles-full for the gentleman.”
Mr. Hobbs yanked open the door, then pointed at the table. “Over there, lad.” He motioned to Tilda. “This here’s Mistress Tilda. Anything she needs she gets. Cap’n’s orders. Understand?”
“Aye, Mr. Hobbs.” The young lad set the steaming kettles on the table, then hurried to the cabinet where he fetched a pair of large ceramic bowls. “Reckon ye’ll be needing these, ma’am?”
Tilda hurried to the table. “Aye. Thank ye, Kip. Might ye show me where the rags be for washing?”
“I’ll fetch them.” The boy made a bouncing turn, shot out the door, then returned within moments with an armload of folded linens. He piled them on the table beside the basins. “That be all, ma’am? Mr. Hobbs?”
“Wait outside the door, boy, ’til Mistress Tilda needs ye to help the man abed.” Mr. Hobbs pointed at another set of cabinets on the opposite wall. “Rum and whiskey be in there, ma’am. Glasses, too.”
“Thank ye, Mr. Hobbs. Kip.” Tilda shrugged off her cloak, tossed her jacket and waistcoat aside, then rolled up the sleeves of her linen tunic.
Both Kip and Mr. Hobbs stood frozen at the door with mouths ajar and shock registering on their faces.
Their stares prickling the back of her neck, Tilda tossed a look back at them as she filled the basins with hot water and rags. “Trews work much better than skirts during a prison break, gentleman. More efficient, ye understand?”
Mr. Hobbs shrugged, and Kip gave a thoughtful nod. “Aye. Makes sense,” the boy said.
“We’ll be a leaving ye now, mistress.” Mr. Hobbs nudged Kip toward the passage. “Kip’ll be right outside should ye have a need.”
“Thank ye. I appreciate all everyone has done.”
The two left, closing the door behind them.
“And now yerself, Master MacCoinnich.” A deep sigh escaped her as Tilda circled Duncan. He needed cleaning from head to toe and his clothes tossed into the sea. There was no telling what sort of lice and vermin inhabited the cells at the jailhouse.
Whilst searching for the whiskey, she’d managed to find a small knife, and what smelled like a cake of scented soap. She retrieved the items and sniffed at the waxy, white chunk resting on a bit of parchment. Clean. Familiar. Tilda took another sniff. It reminded her of Tait. This must be why the ladies always remarked on how sweet he was and loved to flock around him. It most assuredly couldn’t be because of his temperament. Good enough though. Hopefully, there was enough lye in the soap to kill any bugs.
She bathed him from the waist up first, praying he’d remain unconscious whilst she cleansed the field of angry wounds across his back. She combed the filth and other unidentifiable things from his hair, scrubbed his scalp, then sponged the soap away with a wet cloth. He had taken a fierce hit to the back of his head that would need some stitching. She would be sure and tell the surgeon as soon as he arrived.
It took the entirety of the two kettles of water to rid Duncan of all the encrusted blood and filth from his top half. Tilda went to the door and summoned Kit. “More water, lad, and a pair of buckets so I can empty the used water out of the bowls, aye?”
“Aye, mistress.” Kit grabbed hold of the two empty kettles. “Mr. Hoyt said to tell ye he’d be with ye in a bit. One of the new men got tangled in the ropes and lost a hand. Popped it clean off at the wrist, he did.”
Tilda cringed at the thought. “I understand. Run and fetch the water now. I want to get him cleaned afore he comes to.” She shooed the boy down the passage before he could expound upon the description of the poor injured seaman.
A muffled groan came from the table followed by a rasping, “Sons a bitches.”
Tilda turned.
Duncan had pushed himself upright at the table. Somewhat upright. The poor man held fast by will alone.
“Ye are safe, Duncan,” Tilda assured, hurrying to his side. “We’re on Tait’s ship, and the surgeon will be with us soon to tend yer wounds. Broth’s a comin’ for ye, too.”
“Whiskey,” Duncan hissed as he raised his head and fixed the eye that wasn’t swelled shut on her. “All I need is whiskey.”
She had her concerns about the whiskey staying on his stomach, but she wouldn’t deny his request—not in his current state. Hurrying to the cabinet Mr. Hobbs had pointed out, she fetched the bottle along with a glass. She filled the glass and closed his right hand around it. “Ye be as weak as a new lamb. Did they not feed ye?”
“When they felt like it.” He took a shallow sip of the whiskey, closing his eye with an appreciative groan.
A thunk sounded from the door. “Yer water, mistress.”
Watching Duncan in case he should fall to one side, Tilda hurried to the door. “Good lad, Kip. On the table like before.”
He set the kettles down, then fetched a pair of wooden buckets from the hall. “I’ll dump the bowls for ye, mistress,” he said, then came up short as he noticed Duncan moving. “Sir.” He bobbed his head with a quick dip. “I be Kip. Cap’n Tait’s cabin boy.”
“Duncan MacCoinnich,” he replied in a weak voice. “I thank ye for helping Mistress Tilda.”
Kit accepted the thanks with a nod, then hurried to complete his assigned task. With a bucket in each hand, he teetered toward the door. “I’ll return to me post outside the door, mistress,” he said as he exited.
Tilda smiled and closed the door behind him, then set to the task of filling the basins with the water. “I washed yer top half and cleaned yer wounds.” She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the sudden warmth of her cheeks. Sai
nts alive. Her face must be aflame. She cleared her throat, took up the small knife, and motioned toward Duncan’s legs. “Now to wash the rest of ye and burn those trews. No tellin’ what filth ye picked up in that prison.”
Duncan paused mid-sip of his whiskey and arched a brow at her. “Ye mean to wash me? All of me.”
“Aye.” Somehow the word came out weaker than she intended. Tilda lifted her chin and repeated it louder. “Aye, I do.”
Duncan huffed out a soft laugh and emptied his glass. “Would that I was strong enough to enjoy the situation.” He met her gaze as he refilled his glass. “Now that I am saved, when do ye return to the Mackenzie?”
Not comfortable with his intense look, Tilda busied herself stripping the knife through the threads of the outer seams of his trews. “I dinna return. A wife’s place is at her husband’s side.”
“Wife?” Duncan repeated. He reached down and stopped her hand as she made to cut the breeks away at his hip. “Ye dinna have to play at such, Tilda. I know ye were but trying to save me from the noose by claiming to be my wife. Ye dinna have to honor a marriage of consent declared in front of witnesses. Not under such dismal circumstances.”
Heart hammering, she resumed cutting away the soiled cloth from around his leg. “What if I wish to honor it? Would ye not find me acceptable?”
“God Almighty,” Duncan whispered before pressing a hand to one side of his head. “Ye are a fine lass, Tilda, and I do feel a softness for ye. But ye deserve more than living on the run with a wanted criminal for a husband.” He dropped his hand back to the table, turned, and locked his weary gaze with hers. “Ye deserve more than a man like me.”
A hard knock at the door sounded. “Seamus Hoyt, ship’s surgeon.”
Before Tilda could rise to let the doctor in, Duncan called out, “Enter!” Then returned his attention to her. “I release ye, Tilda. I would never hold ye fast in a marriage so far beneath ye.”
Enraged determination flared hot and fast through her. How dare he think he had the right to decide what she deserved or wanted. She rose from kneeling beside him and slammed the knife on the table.
The Warrior Page 11
