Forbidden Realm

by Diana Cosby

  Thick, round posts flush against the walls supported the thatched roof. Casks of brew, no doubt acquired on one of their exploits, lay stacked against the left wall.

  A large trencher table in the middle took up a sizable portion of the remaining space. Rough-looking men half-filled the benches on either side; men who, with their entrance, had shifted their attention toward them.

  With a confident swagger, Tighearnán strode across the room, Bran at his side.

  The men shouted out their welcome.

  A man sporting a long, scraggly beard and a scar down the entire side of his face lifted a brow toward Tighearnán. “You were here yesterday. I didna expect to see you for another month or more.”

  “Had not the reason been dire, I wouldna have returned,” Tighearnán said.

  Wary eyes narrowed on Rónán, before shifting to Lathir. “Ye bring strangers.”

  The others around the table scanned them with shrewd eyes.

  “Their ship was attacked by the English,” Tighearnán said. “They were fortunate enough to reach shore before their vessel was smashed against the rocks.”

  “Bloody scoundrels,” a fierce-looking man near the end spat. “And the English?”

  “Dinna know we are alive,” Lathir said.

  Thick eyebrows pressed together from a man several paces away. “And who be you, lass?”

  “Lady Lathir McConaghy,” Tighearnán said. “The Sassenach abducted her father, Lord Sionn.”

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Lord of the realm of Tír Sèitheach?”

  “Aye,” she said, “and this is my guard, Sir Rónán.”

  “Guard?” Tighearnán scoffed. “Sir Rónán served with the galloglass.”

  Impressed grunts erupted from the crew, along with respect in their eyes.

  Rónán remained silent beneath their scrutiny.

  Another man near the center of the group wiped his mouth with his arm and nodded at her. “Are the galloglass searching for your father?”

  “Nay,” Tighearnán said. “As of now, we are.”

  Rumbles of surprise passed through the crew.

  Bran gestured to Lathir, Rónán, and Tighearnán, and bellowed an order for their drinks over his shoulder. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

  Though the group appeared an unsavory lot, Lathir quickly discovered they were intelligent, knowledgeable, and loyal. In addition, they knew the surrounding sea and currents of Ireland and beyond. No doubt cultured by their dealing in illicit goods.

  She shifted in her chair, the incredibility of the situation not lost on her. Who would have believed that one day she would seek aid from pirates? If it saved her father, she’d seek help from whoever necessary.

  “God’s teeth,” a man she’d learned was called Senach growled, a stocky, hard-edged man who bluntly said what was on his mind. A trait she’d quickly discovered was common among the entire crew. “The earl is the man that braggart who was passing through yesterday was talking about, then?”

  Tighearnán nodded. “Aye.”

  Senach’s face settled into a hard expression. “Sir Feradach O’Dowd is a crafty rogue who knows what he is about. There will be naught simple about freeing the earl.”

  The crew rumbled their agreement.

  Still outraged the treacherous cur who’d abused him in his youth had earned the title of master-at-arms for the earl of Ardgar, Rónán shoved his own mug on the table. Nor did stewing over the fact help them save Lord Sionn.

  “Feradach deserves to pay,” Rónán said. “Which is why we must sail to Wynshire Castle.”

  “Aye,” Lathir agreed. “Once home, I will raise a force to find and rescue my father.”

  Rónán glanced toward her. Despite the dark emotion seething within him, he couldn’t help but be impressed by her daring, appreciating her strength to face a challenge head-on. Any man would be proud to have her at his side.

  Rónán glanced at the crew. “Your captain said you can be convinced to help us.”

  Senach’s eyes lit up. “For the right price, we can set sail in but hours.” He chuckled, and the men surrounding the table laughed, but Rónán caught the serious undertone.

  “Name it,” Lathir said.

  The men’s laughter fell away. The lure of fortune glittered in their eyes.

  Sparks popped in the hearth as Bran studied her for a long moment, the haze of smoke within the sturdy building rich with the tang of mead. “Ten bits of gold.”

  Fists pounded on the table in agreement.

  “Done,” she stated. “Once we reach Wynshire Castle, you will be paid.”

  “Which is naught located on the coast,” a large man seated in the back pointed out.

  “It isna,” Lathir agreed, “but a shielded river few know of runs from the coast to a loch near the stronghold.”

  Surprise flickered in the men’s eyes.

  “I know of nay waterway there,” a short man to the right blustered.

  “You have sailed but a few months with us,” Senach scoffed. “You have just found the crow’s nest.”

  Men’s laughter filled the chamber, and relief swept Rónán. They had a ship and a crew. “You said we could leave in but hours?”

  Bran’s face twisted into a thoughtful frown as he glanced at his men. “Aye, the only thing we unloaded from our last rai”—he cleared his throat—“foray, was goods we had procured. As there is plenty of food and drink still aboard, we can carry the few provisions necessary to the ship. If you wish, my lady, we can leave at midday.”

  Relief filled her gaze. She raised her as-yet-untouched mug and downed it swiftly, to the rousing humor of the rabble of men. “Aye, the sooner the better.”

  * * * *

  The cog’s bow angled up the swell, then dove into the oncoming trough. Hewn timbers shuddered beneath the force, and white water blasted from both sides of the hull as if a cannon fired.

  Legs braced, the sail full, strained beneath the lash of wind, Rónán savored the potent force of nature, the fresh whip of salty air as he scanned the horizon.

  Naught met his view but the dangerous roll of blackened waves as far as he could see. Nor with storms seeming to pile upon the other during the winter in Ireland did he expect different. Naught but those seasoned aboard ship dared brave the tempest-fed waters.

  Paces away, Lathir stood. Like him, she’d braced her feet in an easy gesture of one who has sailed often. Her hand shielding her eyes from the spray, they both searched for any sign of enemy ships.

  Since their departure a day past, they’d been fortunate not to see any. Nor did the turbulent seas cause complications. The crew handled the wind-tossed whitecaps with the ease of reaching for a tankard. A smile touched his mouth. He’d swear that the rougher the sea grew, the happier the crew became.

  Regardless if the skies had grown dark with the threat of a storm as they’d prepared to depart and the wind had risen, Tighearnán, as Bran and his men, had set sail without hesitation. ’Twas as if they shook their fists at the incoming squalls, anticipated the challenge of defeating whatever nature hurled their way.

  Though Rónán loved sailing, having navigated the waters surrounding Ireland, England, and the Mediterranean many times over with the Templars, he was impressed with the sheer defiance and incredible skill of the crew.

  Water rumbled against the hull as it carved through a large wave slamming against the bow. The vessel groaned as it was again tossed up.

  “We are making good time,” Lathir shouted above the roar of wind.

  After one last scan of the horizon, he glanced toward the sun overhead, then stepped closer.

  “As long as there are nay delays,” she said, “we may reach my home by late tomorrow.”

  “Aye.”

  “God forbid if we dinna rescue my father before ’tis too late.”
She turned her face toward the wind, but not before he caught the lines of concern on her face.

  Too aware of Feradach O’Dowd’s preference for violence, neither did he add that in the scoundrel’s control, Lord Sionn may have already suffered a beating or worse. Rónán prayed the noble’s powerful position as the ruler of the realm of Tír Sèitheach would keep him safe as long as he was the Irishman’s captive.

  Hard curls of white water blasted from the sides of the cog as it dropped into an oncoming trough. Spray pummeled him. After he wiped his eyes, his gaze found Lathir.

  Face misted, droplets clung to tendrils of her hair tugged free. Except to him, she’d never looked so beautiful.

  Memories poured through him of her asleep in his arms last night aboard the ship. How without hesitation, she’d leaned her face against the curve of his neck, her soft breaths feathering against his skin like a wish. Foolishly, a part of him had wished they were alone. A dangerous thought when there could never be more between them than he as her protector.

  But that didn’t lessen the want.

  Blast it.

  Rónán gave a rough exhale, fighting the desire growing stronger for her every day, the taste of her kiss, the feel of her mouth pressed against his, etched in his mind. Nor did it help that several times since they’d set sail, he’d seen her watching him, caught the desire in her eyes.

  “Lady Lathir?”

  At the youthful voice, Rónán glanced down, impressed as Órlaith moved about the deck without hesitation. An ease no doubt culled by numerous voyages with her father.

  Though Tighearnán would leave his daughter on land during his pirating days, ’twould seem she’d sailed with him often when he sold goods. He grunted. Stolen goods. At least they once belonged to the English.

  A smile on her face, Lathir knelt as the girl reached them. “Aye?”

  She held out a sack. “My father said ’tis for you”—she glanced at Rónán—“both to eat.”

  “I thank you.” Lathir accepted the cloth sack, untied it. She withdrew a wedge of bread and cheese, held them out to the child. “Here.”

  Surprise flickered in the girl’s eyes. “I shouldna eat until I have finished my task.”

  A smile touched Rónán’s mouth as he watched the struggle in the child’s eyes. In the meager time they’d known Órlaith, she’d stolen both his and Lathir’s hearts. Who could resist those innocent brown eyes filled with curiosity and wonder, her unchecked enthusiasm at everything? And her questions. Since she’d moved passed her shyness, she’d had many. But her sweet manner made him anticipate each and every visit.

  Her father had teased Lathir that she would be asking for a princess crown, and Lathir had laughingly replied that mayhap ’twas a wish that could be granted.

  He enjoyed watching Lathir with the child. Their growing bond made him think of what it would be like to have a child of his own, more, to have a child with Lathir.

  An ache built inside for what never could be. Aye, ’twas best to focus on reaching Wynshire Castle, to raise a force to rescue her father. But—

  “Ship on the horizon!” Bran bellowed from the bow.

  Jaw tight, Rónán scoured the dark roll of wind-whipped waves. Atop a distant swell, a large cog cut through the rough seas, its white sail full, straining against the harsh winds. His gaze narrowed on the banner waving from the mast. ’Twas an English warship.

  Chapter Nine

  “The bloody Sassenach are closing fast!” Bran shouted, his words ripped away by the howl of the wind.

  Salty spray whipped Lathir as, heart pounding, she turned toward their pursuers.

  Large waves battered the English warship as it cut through the rough seas.

  On a muttered curse, Bran spun toward the stern of the ship. “Senach, trim the sail. Everyone else, keep emptying water from the hull. By God, we can outrun these scoundrels!”

  “Aye, Captain.” Brow furrowed with determination, Senach worked with the lines, finally securing the rope.

  Lathir joined the crew around her, filling buckets of water that’d washed over the bow, then passing them along to sailors who emptied the contents overboard.

  The cog shuddered as another large swell crashed against the hull. A plume of water exploded upward, washed over the bow. The violent slide of frothy white stormed the deck, invading every nook, surrounding each crate as the cog was again shoved upward.

  Wood scraped as Lathir slid her bucket along the fast flow, handed it to Rónán.

  Jaw set, he passed the pail to Tighearnán, who emptied it over the rail.

  Tighearnán’s gaze cut toward the enemy cog before shifting to his daughter, hidden beneath a shelter. “I had hoped to avoid a confrontation with the English. But the lass must learn never to fear a life of pursuing what she believes in.”

  Eyes wide, the girl watched her father, but she didn’t move from where he’d ordered her to remain.

  Lathir fought her fear on the child’s behalf, but Tighearnán was right. A belief her father had shared, and one, however dangerous, she understood. Naught about life was safe, there were no assurances, and ’twas those who took the risks who carved their own destinies.

  And allowed others to dare to hope.

  To dream.

  Nor would the Sassenach deter her. Her hand settled on her dagger. Whatever it took, they’d rescue her father.

  The pounding of water filled the air as Lathir bent over to scoop up the next bucket, then turned to the captain. “Are we pulling away?”

  Thick brows salted with gray narrowed as Bran scowled at the large warship cresting the next swell. “Nay.” He turned toward his crew. “Man the oars!”

  Boots thudded on the slick deck as his crew ran to take their places.

  Salty spray from the next swell filled the air, again drenching Lathir as she slid onto the bench beside Rónán. She curled her fingers around the smoothed handle of the oars, barely registering the surprise and admiration of several men in the crew, then leaned forward as the men shoved the tips of the paddles into the water.

  Bran strode before them and braced his feet, his weathered face taut with determination. “Row!”

  In unison, they drew the oars through the water.

  The cog surged forward with each sweep of the oars driving through the churn of the sea.

  Muscles bunched and burned as Lathir pulled on the next command. On a deep inhale, she leaned forward at the captain’s next call.

  Rónán’s powerful body flexed as he worked in unison beside her, hauling the oars through the churn of water.

  A grim smile creased Bran’s face. “We are pulling away!”

  Cheers rang out from the crew as they again leaned back, plunged the oars into the churn of white.

  The slap of smoothed wood was lost against the hurl of wind, but Lathir focused on each pull, blood pumping as they slowly but steadily continued to put distance between them and their enemy.

  A shadow had her glancing up. They were sailing near a cliff. “We are too close to shore!”

  Excitement sparked in Bran’s eyes. “Nay, lass. We are approaching the shadow of the wolf.”

  Beside her, a grim smile curved Rónán’s mouth. “Serve the bastards right.”

  Confused, she shook her head. “What is the shadow of the wolf?”

  “Look through the porthole,” Rónán said.

  Along the shore, a shadow fractured the thick line of firs tangled with large oaks, their limbs barren except for a few stout leaves that whipped in the wind. Lathir frowned. “An entry to a waterway?”

  “Aye,” Rónán replied.

  She stared in disbelief. “’Tis none I have ever heard of.”

  “Most have not.” Droplets clinging to his harsh, weather-beaten face, Tighearnán studied Rónán. “I admit my astonishment that he is aware of this hidden inlet
. ’Tis known mostly by those who sail outside the law, and, ’twould seem, the galloglass.”

  “Helmsman,” Bran called, “guide us in.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the sailor manning the rudder called.

  Wood groaned as the vessel made a hard right, the large waves battering the craft. Wind filling the ship’s sail, they raced shoreward, the banks narrowing dangerously.

  “Saint’s breath,” Lathir breathed. “We will be trapped!”

  Tighearnán winked. “Which is what the English will be thinking when they follow. Nor are they aware that this vessel has a shallow draft.”

  “What do you mean?” Lathir asked.

  “That,” Rónán said, “whoever is captaining the warship isna familiar with this part of the coast.”

  “Why do you say that?” Lathir asked.

  “From the angle they are approaching,” Rónán replied.

  In the slash of frothing white, eddies curled around the tip of the oars as she, along with the others manning them, pulled forward. “You are not making sense.”

  Tighearnán gave a mock salute to Rónán. “Aye, he is, my lady. Large rocks are shielded below water during high tide along this portion of the coastline.”

  She scanned the rough seas as the enemy cog closed, finding naught irregular about the incoming swells. “I dinna see any sign of boulders below.”

  “Which, if unfamiliar with this area,” Bran said, “is what the English will think until ’tis too late.”

  The distant crunch and snap of wood sounded.

  Lathir, as the crew, hurried to the rail for a better view.

  A large swell slammed against the warship wedged within the hidden rocks. Wood screamed and planks snapped as the cog twisted beneath the force.

  Tighearnán chuckled. “Looks as if they have discovered the stones.”

  The crew cheered as swells continued to bash the English cog. With each crash, groans and squeals of tormented wood spewed into the air. Large chunks of the vessel broke away, and the cog began to list, then sink into the dark churn.