by Diana Cosby
He turned toward the sea, watched the tips of the frothy water cut away from the bow. “I told you to man the rudder.”
“With the pathetic pace the Aodh is moving, I doubt the vessel will go astray.”
The truth. Still, he was in a brooding mood, one he would prefer to keep from her. “Why are you here?”
“To let you know I am here if you need to talk.”
The last thing he wished was to appear weak in her eyes. He faced her. “I am not looking for sympathy.”
“And I seek naught but to offer friendship,” she said, a sudden bite in her voice. “An error I willna mistake again.” Shoulders stiff, she stepped back.
He cursed. “Lathir—”
Mouth tight, hair whipping in the wind with glints of gold caught within the moonbeams, she looked like an irritated fairy. If she was of the fey, no doubt she would haul him to the Otherworld and toss him into a bog.
“Your offer is appreciated,” he said.
“But unwelcome.”
Far from it, which was the problem. Oddly, he found himself wanting to confide in her, to let down his guard. “I deal with war, not issues that dinna pertain to my mission, nor build friendships when in but weeks I will be gone.”
She frowned. “But you shared your past.”
Blast it, he was making a muddle of this. “I thought to take your mind from your grief.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Which you did. For that, I thank you.”
Wisps of moonlight caressing her skin lured him to meet her gaze, to see the sincerity on her face.
“There isna time for friendship?” Humor flickered in her eyes. “Or do you just avoid friendships with women?”
At the absurdity of her comment, against his intent, he chuckled, and the tension in his body eased. He liked her, more than was wise, but right now she didn’t deserve a rebuff. They had been through much together since the attack. Any feelings she inspired were his to contend with. His to eventually bury beneath the weight of his mission.
“I have several close friends who are women,” Rónán said, thinking of Stephan’s wife, Katherine, and the spouses of his other Templar brothers. All extraordinary lasses he’d liked from the start, much as he had Lathir. An unwanted thought, given her father ruled the realm of Tír Sèitheach, while he was naught but a knight with a sword.
“Then ’tis me?” she prodded, a playful lilt to her voice.
“Why does it matter?” he asked, not wanting to be charmed.
“Because you intrigue me.” The bow cut through a swell. On a soft rumble, salty spray curled into the air. “I tend to be good at evaluating people, but every time I think I know who you are, you show me a side that I didna expect.”
“I am a simple warrior.”
A smile curved her mouth. “Naught about you is simple. Few knights earn the trust of their king. Fewer still are assigned a mission of such importance. In truth, I expected the Bruce to choose a war-seasoned man of nobility to sail with my father to bring back the arms he needs.”
If not for his and the king’s Templar tie, a choice Rónán believed the Bruce would have made. “I am humbled by my sovereign’s trust.”
“But not surprised?”
Her intuition caught Rónán off guard. Though he’d seen Lathir in King Robert’s presence, he’d believed that he’d kept any hint of a deeper relationship with his monarch hidden beyond that of a knight who served him. Yet she’d picked up on their unusual bond. What would she think if she were to learn that he, just as Scotland’s king, was a Knight Templar?
On a slow exhale, she lifted her face against the soft breeze. “You didna reply.”
“And what would you have me say?” he asked, curious of where her questions were leading.
“Mayhap”—her eyes danced in delight—“that in truth you are a pirate. And when the Bruce went into hiding during the winter of 1306, he hadna escaped to Ireland, or to an island off the coast of Antrim as many speculated, but that you stowed him aboard your ship, and he helped you as you marauded the English.”
At the mental image, he grinned. “I have seen my sovereign wield a blade, and if he stepped into such a position, I believe he would make a fine brigand.”
“But,” she said, her gaze riveted on his, “not on your ship?”
“Nay.” Never before had he found importance in material possessions, but for the first time, Rónán wished he indeed captained a ship, or held something of significance.
Stunned by the notion, refusing to examine the reason it’d slipped into his mind, he dismissed the unwanted thought. Nay, he was happy with his lot.
At least he had been until this moment, when the difference between their lots in life seemed glaring, at least to his eyes. “I own naught except a horse, a broadsword, and a sgian dubh.”
“Mayhap, yet they are things one can replace, but not the caliber of a man.”
“Indeed.” With the cool tang of salt and the night filling the air, he gave a slow exhale, finding himself at ease in her presence, realizing he would like to learn more about her, assuring himself ’twas not due to her beauty, or how he could lose himself looking in her eyes, but to bide the time. “I have decided that we should be friends.”
Lathir arched a brow. “Have you, now? And why do you think I would be interested in accepting such?”
“Because I intrigue you.”
Her smile when it came reached her eyes and made his gaze linger and wish that it was within his power to keep it there. Foolish thoughts. Her life was spent in noble circles, his on the battlefield.
“There is that. You are fortunate,” she teased, “I can overlook your surly nature, which I owe to your years at war.”
He chuckled. “I do not believe that I have ever been called surly.”
“Probably not to your face because your presence intimidated anyone from saying something so foolish.”
“You arena foolish.”
“Aye, as you deemed moments ago, I am your friend.”
A fact that set well with him. Though he wasn’t searching for a woman in his life, her strength, honor, and courage drew him. And he’d shared more of his past with her than he had with many of the Brotherhood.
With a yawn, she stepped away from the rail. “I am going to check the rudder.”
“I will be there shortly.” For a moment, regret weighed heavily as he watched her amble toward the stern. For a knight with a future filled with naught but wielding a blade, ’twas best to push any such thoughts of her from his mind.
* * * *
Above the thin veil of fog hanging over the sea, streaks of amber smeared the sky, framing a dance of low clouds to the west. Spearing a bit of meat on her fishhook, Lathir dropped the line over the rail. The wind of two days past had lessened to a breeze that did little more than ripple their sail and allow them to meander forward.
Still, they were headed west. For that she was thankful as it took her closer to finding her father.
Where was he now?
Please God let him be safe.
Her heart ached every time she walked over the bloodstained planks, and she said a silent prayer for the brave men’s souls, knights she’d known for years, many who’d become her friends.
At the soft tap of boots, she glanced over and smiled at the sight of Rónán climbing the ladder to the main deck where she fished. Though she’d claimed he was surly, ’twas far from the truth.
In her travels with her father, she’d met many a warrior, but none like him. Aye, his attention was on war, on the mission he must accomplish, but their time together had exposed a man of great intelligence, integrity, and pride.
As well, though many knights had faith, when he’d believed her asleep, she’d caught Rónán on his knees whispering the Our Father several times over.
She grimaced. Was his d
evout nature inspired by his tragic youth? If so, the reason for his deep faith made sense.
A tug pulled on the line between her fingers.
She snapped the line to set the hook, then hauled up the thin twine.
Water splashed as a fish broke the surface. Satisfaction filled her as she added it to the other two on the deck.
“Seems you had more luck than I,” Rónán said as he reached her. “’Twill make a fine meal.”
“And be a welcome break from the oatcakes. Not that I dinna appreciate having them, or the dried beef.”
He walked past the charred timber of the mast. “As you caught them, I will clean and cook them.”
“An offer I shall happily accept.” She glanced toward the opening to below deck, then shifted her gaze to him. “Are the rags we shoved in the new crack in the hull working?”
A frown deepened his brow. “Not as much as we had hoped. We will need to bail out water every few hours.”
“A manageable amount.” A gust of wind swept past and she glanced up, scanned the clouds building in the west. “It looks as if another storm is moving in.”
“Aye. I had hoped to reach shore before anymore adverse weather hit.” He nodded toward where they’d lashed timbers together to construct a makeshift raft. “Though we havena sighted land, we canna be far. If the Aodh begins to sink, we can use that.”
Lathir didn’t want to consider the possibility of trying to survive the frigid sea in that crude boat. With the craft tossed about in the wind, the result would be a dangerous if not miserable event. “I—” The cry of a gull had her glancing west.
In the distance, a seabird soared high in the sky, its white wings stark against the darkening skies.
Heart pounding, she scanned the thinning shroud of mist. Stilled. “I see a cliff!”
Rónán whirled, stared out a long moment, then his shoulders relaxed. “Thank God. Now, let us pray we reach shore before the storm arrives.” He crossed to the rudder, steered the cog toward the distant crag. Once he’d reset their course, he looked over. “Do you recognize the area?”
As the vessel crept forward, the slap of waves steady against the hull, the vague outline grew clearer. Sheer cliffs staggered with ruddy hues of color cascaded in a fierce wall to where the surf slammed the base and erupted into violent bursts of white.
From the menacing shards of rock guarding the narrow inlet extended dark, oddly shaped stones positioned next to the other. Farther inland, the rocks lay flat like steps.
“’Tis impressive,” he said.
“Aye, ’tis a causeway.” As always, she was taken by the sheer beauty of the land. “Legend has it ’twas built by an Irish giant to battle his foe in Scotland.”
Rónán arched a brow. “A Scottish foe?”
“Have you never heard the tale?”
He shook his head. “I had little time in my youth for such fancies.”
Tenderness filled her. “For which I am sorry.” She pointed toward the coast. “See that odd gathering of flat stones spread out along a portion of the shore?”
“Aye.”
“’Tis all that remains of the fateful battle.”
“And did the Irish giant win?”
A smile curved her lips. “I would say it depends on who you ask, but I like to believe that in the end he escaped with more than his life, but with his honor.”
The lightness in his eyes faded. “’Tis irrelevant what you believe. ’Tis a story, naught but to amuse those caught within the innocence of youth.” He adjusted the rudder.
On a groan, the cog struggled as it tried to turn against the strong flow of water.
He scowled at their makeshift sail. “Blast it, we are caught in the current and closing too fast. Given the ship’s damaged hull, if the Aodh hits the rocks, ’twill split apart.”
A pulse of fear jolted her. Tightening her fingers on the rail, she squinted at the shore. “From the water line on the beach, ’tis high tide.”
“Aye and, God willing, it may be our saving grace.” He gestured to the west of the large, flattened stones. “Though the coast is rocky, the stones are small. ’Tis where I am thinking to run the ship aground.”
Icy wind thick with the scent of rain whipped past as the wind increased. Against the blustery howl, whitecaps tipped the growing waves. Dark clouds rolled overhead, smothering the sun.
She shot him a nervous glance. “Looks like we willna make it to shore before the storm arrives.”
“By God, we will do our damnedest.” Arms visibly straining, he shoved the rudder.
The Aodh shook, turned slightly to the right.
Face taut, he met her gaze. “Gather our packs below in case we are forced to abandon ship.”
“Aye.” Waves slammed the hull as she hurried to the ladder and scrambled down. With care, she picked her way over debris to where they’d stowed their supplies and began shoving essentials into their packs.
Wood cracked; the cog jolted.
She yelped as she was thrown back among the sodden boxes.
Steps pounded overhead. Eyes dark with worry, Rónán peered into the hull. “Are you hurt?” he bellowed against the wind.
Grimacing against the ache in her ribs where she’d hit, Lathir pushed to her feet. “Nay. What happened?”
“The Aodh slammed against the rocks. The rudder is broken.”
As if to emphasize the danger, the next swell raised the ship, then smashed it against the stones.
Wood snapped.
Another gash opened in the hull.
Seawater flooded in.
“Lathir!”
“Coming!” With supplies in hand, she clambered over the debris. Water had risen to her knees by the time she’d reached the ladder. Fighting the wash of panic, she shoved her foot on the braided hemp, began to climb.
Wood shattered in her wake as another swell rammed the cog.
Jolted back a rung from the top, she lost her grip.
He caught her hand.
Icy wind lashed at her as, muscles screaming, she dangled above the hull.
Another wave slammed against the cog.
Teeth clenched, Rónán hauled her up.
Wind moaned as she lay against the deck, gasping for breath. “Thank God, for a moment…” Against the pain she struggled to her feet, kept her balance, refusing to further ponder her fate. “There is a huge slice in the bow!”
“And a large chunk missing in the stern.” Rónán frowned. “Can you walk?”
“Aye.”
“Help me shove the raft over the side before the ship sinks.”
As they fought their way across the deck, another huge, white-tipped swell rammed the cog.
Lathir lurched forward.
Rónán steadied her, then holding Lathir’s hand, forged through the whip of rain toward the raft, the abating wave exposing the jagged rocks below.
With his free hand, Rónán grabbed the splintered piece of the mast as the ship dropped. “Hold on!”
Timbers shattered with a violent screech as the vessel was impaled on the rocks.
Their raft broke free, slid across the deck, and plummeted into the raging seas.
The cog began to list.
“Saint’s breath, we are too late!” she gasped.
“Lathir!” Rónán demanded. “Look at me!”
Wind-driven rain hurled past as gray eyes dark with fear were riveted on him.
“We can do this, but only if we work together.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then gave a shaky nod.
“The cog is listing toward the rocks,” he yelled above the roar of the wind, “which is to our benefit. The next wave will ground it. Then we can climb to the other side of the deck and jump to safety.”
What little color in her face fled, but he saw her
visually soldier herself for the challenge ahead.
The next surge of water bashed the hull, hurling the fractured vessel higher against the rocks.
Her body jerked; he tightened his grip. Once he’d secured the rope to the rail, he handed her part of the woven hemp. “Use the line to climb down to the rail.”
She nodded.
Icy rain battered him as he guided her into position. “Stay close!”
“I will.”
“Now!” With the cog angled sideways and slowly sinking into the churning sea, the rope taut in his hands, Rónán propelled down the incline, Lathir on his heels.
The groan of wood and splinter of timbers filled the air as another wave slammed the cog as they were halfway down.
“Hold on!” he bellowed.
“The ship canna take much more,” Lathir called.
“Aye!” Braided hemp scraped his hands as he dropped and braced himself on the rickety deck. He caught her waist as she reached him.
Another large swell rose from the depths, whitecaps topping the blackened churn of water.
God’s truth, they had to reach safety before the next wave hit. With the staggered rocks now but an arm’s length away, Rónán guided her atop the rail. “Jump!”
Wind battered her as she leaped. Her feet hit the wet rocks; she slid, then steadied herself. She whirled back to him, eyes wide with fear as she glanced behind him. “Hurry!”
He slashed free the length of rope they’d used to climb down, held on to one side, tossed the other part to her. “Tie the end to the rock behind you.”
Fingers trembling, she secured the line.
Water thundering behind him, Rónán tightened his hold on the rope, climbed atop the rail.
A swell blasted the ship.
The rail snapped beneath the force. With the roar of water rushing around him, Rónán plunged toward the violent churn.
Chapter Four
Pain shot through Rónán as he slammed against a boulder. Icy water streamed through the rocks above, poured over him as the hull splintered to his right.
The swell retreated as he clung to the woven hemp; he gasped for breath.
With a shuddered groan, wood scraped as the wreckage began sliding back, creating a gaping hole below him that was quickly filling with water.
