Tess and the Highlander

by May McGoldrick

  Tess and the Highlander

  by

  May McGoldrick

  Tess and the Highlander

  May McGoldrick

  ISBN: 0-06-000486-x

  Copyright © 2009 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.

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  For Cyrus and Samuel, our own young heroes…

  CHAPTER 1

  The Isle of May, off the Firth of Forth

  Scotland, March 1543

  Tess poked at the corpse with a stick and backed away.

  Her unbound auburn hair, already soaked from the driving rain, whipped across her eyes when she leaned in to look closer.

  The Highlander appeared to be dead, but she couldn’t be sure. Long, dark blond hair lay matted across his face. She looked at the high leather boots, darkened by the salt water. The man was wearing a torn shirt that once must have been white. A broad expanse of plaid, pinned at one shoulder by a silver brooch, trailed into the tidal pool. From the thick belt that held his kilt in place, a sheathed dirk banged against an exposed thigh.

  A dozen seals watched her from the deep water beyond the surf.

  With the storm growing increasingly wilder, she stood indecisively over the body. In all the years she’d been on the island, she’d never seen a human wash up before. Certainly, there had been wrecks in the storms that swept in across the open water, and Auld Charlotte and Garth used to find all kinds of things—some valuable and some worthless—cast up on the shores. Never, though, had there been another person—at least, not since the aging husband and wife had found Tess herself eleven years earlier.

  Tess pushed aside those thoughts now and crouched beside the man, placing a hand hesitantly on his chest. A faint pounding beneath the shirt was the answer to her prayers…and her fears. She didn’t want anyone intruding on her island and in her life. At the same time, she could not allow a living thing to die when she could save it. Or him.

  The surf crashed over the ring of rock that formed the tidal pool, and the young woman pushed herself to her feet. She drew the leather cloak up to shield her face from the stinging spray of wind-driven brine. When she looked back at the body, the wave had pushed the Highlander deeper into the pool, immersing his face.

  Tess immediately dropped her stick and lifted his face out of the water. Glancing over her shoulder, she eyed a flat rock at the far side of the pool. It sat higher than the tide generally rose. Rolling him forward slightly, she held him under the arms just as another wave crested the pool’s rim. The surge of water lifted the body, and Tess quickly dragged him through the water toward the rock.

  He was heavier than she thought he would be. Out of breath, she finally succeeded in getting him partially anchored on the rock.

  Auld Charlotte had once told Tess that they’d found her nearly drowned in this same tidal pool. The thought of that now flickered in her mind. She tried to recall the storm and the ship and the day, but those memories had long ago faded into nightmares. Now, it was all buried too deeply within her to recollect. She wondered if it was a day like this one.

  The dirk at the Highlander’s side caught her eye, and Tess reached down quickly, yanked the weapon from its sheath, and tucked it into her own belt.

  The wind was howling, and the salt spray was stinging her face. Tess looked out at the frothy, gray-green sea, hoping to see some boat searching for the Highlander lying unconscious beside her.

  If they came, she wouldn’t let herself be seen, though. She wanted no news of her presence be carried to the mainland.

  She had only been six years old when the ship had sank and she had washed ashore. But the little she allowed herself to remember from the time before that day was too painful. Tess had no desire to face that horrifying past ever again. There was no place else that she ever wanted to be but here. This island was the only home she had left.

  For eleven years, the reclusive couple had kept her existence a secret. And now, with both of them dead, she could only pray to continue her life as before, undisturbed.

  Her plan was the same as the one she’d followed dozens of times since washing up on this island. Whenever there was a chance of a fishing boat or some pilgrims coming ashore, Garth and Charlotte would trundle Tess off with plenty of food and blankets to the caves on the western shore of the island. She would remain there in safety until all was well and the visitors were gone.

  The only difference now was that she would have to use her own judgment about when it would be safe to come out.

  Ready to push herself to her feet, a tinge of curiosity made Tess reach and push the Highlander’s wet hair out of his face. Instantly, she was sorry for the action, for the man’s features took her by surprise. Even unconscious, or perhaps because of it, he was an extremely handsome man. A high forehead, a straight nose, a face devoid of the beard that she’d assumed all Highlanders wore. He had a face not even marred by scars…yet. Only a few scratches and bruises from his time in the surf.

  Angry for allowing herself to be distracted, she started to get to her feet, but one foot slipped, and she had to brace a hand on his chest to catch herself.

  His eyes immediately opened, and Tess’s breath knotted tightly in her chest. Blue eyes the color of a winter sky stared at her from beneath long dark lashes flecked with gold. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. Holding her breath, she remained still for the eternity of a moment until he closed them again.

  She edged off the rock and ran as fast and as far as her legs would take her.

  The taste in Colin Macpherson’s mouth was foul as a dried up chamber bucket.

  Rolling onto his side, he felt his stomach heave. He tried to push himself up. He couldn’t see. As he turned, Colin’s hand slipped off cold wet rock, and he tumbled into a shallow pool of water, banging his ribs hard on the stone as he fell.

  “Blasted hell,” he groaned, pushing himself onto his knees. Holding his head, he blinked a few times, trying to clean the sand and salt out of his eyes.

  Rocks. More rocks. And water. And bobbing heads. He pushed back a long, twisted hank of hair that had fallen across his face, obstructing his vision. He tried to focus on the creatures moving on the rocks.

  Seals—a dozen or so—were staring at him from the rocks rimming the pool and from the sea beyond. Their brown eyes were dark and watchful. The image of a woman’s face immediately flashed before his mind, and he struggled to push himself to his feet. A couple of seals barked a warning to those on shore.

  “H…HULLO!” he called out, only to have the surf and the wind slap the greeting back into his face.

  His entire body ached. It had taken great effort to get the words out past his raw, scratched throat, but Colin tried again. He was certain someone had been there only moments before. Or was it hours?

  “HULLO!”

  This time a shriek of seabirds was his only answer. Taking in a painful half
breath, he tried to move his feet in the shallow pool. They moved, though it felt as if they were made of lead. Colin succeeded in taking only three steps before he had to sit down on the edge of a rock. The world was spinning around in his head.

  Water. Rocks. And on each side of the protected tidal pool, rock-studded banks dotted with occasional patches of sea grass sloped upward from the turbulent sea.

  The Macpherson ship had been sailing north when the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It shouldn’t have been unexpected, though. The Firth of Forth was famous for its foul and quickly changing moods.

  Half o’er, half o’er, from Aberdour. It’s fifty fathom deep. And there lies good Sir Patrick Spence, with the Scots lords at his feet. Well, Colin thought, at least he had washed ashore…wherever he was.

  The last clear memory that Colin had was shoving one of the sailors to safety in the aft passageway. The lad was nearly unconscious after being slammed against the ship’s gunwales as the great vessel had continued to heel before the tempestuous blast of wind.

  The storm had come on fast and hard, but they’d been riding it well. Colin and Alexander, his eldest brother, had been standing with the second mate at the tiller when he’d seen the young man go down. The sea sweeping across the deck had nearly carried the lad overboard.

  Colin fought the urge to be ill. The foul, salty, bilge taste rose again into his mouth.

  The lad had no sooner been secured when Colin had heard the cries of the lookout above. The dark shape of land appeared, not an arrowshot to port. And then the ship’s keel had struck the sand bar.

  He remembered being bounced hard across the deck, only to have the sea lift him before plunging him deep into the brine. After a lifetime thrashing in the dark waters, he’d finally sputtered to the surface. All he’d heard then was the howling shriek of the wind before another crashing wall of water drove him under again. Somehow he’d survived it all, though he had no idea how.

  He stared again at a seal, who was watching him intently. For an insane moment, thoughts of legends told by sailors clouded his reason.

  A gust of cold wind blasting mercilessly across the stormy water instantly sobered him. He was soaked through and chilled to the bone. Colin managed to push himself to his feet and climb out of the tidal pool.

  Another image of dark eyes looking down at him flashed through his mind. The eyes of a young woman. He remembered more now. Someone pulling him through the water. Propping him on the rock. She had been no apparition. Colin braced himself against the wind and let his gaze sweep over his surroundings.

  “WHERE ARE YOU?” He shouted over the wind. There was not a boat or person, not even a tree in sight, and the rising slope of rocky ground straight ahead hampered Colin’s vision of what lay beyond.

  “And where am I?” he muttered to himself.

  The Macpherson ship had been too far north for him to wash ashore on English soil. The storm could not have driven them as far east as the continent. This had to be Scotland.

  Colin knew he could die of the cold once night fell. He had to determine his whereabouts and find a protected place to wait out the storm.

  He looked around again at his surroundings. He couldn’t shake the sensation that he was being watched, and he didn’t think it was just the seals. There was no one else in sight, though. His hand reached for the dirk he always kept at his belt, but it was missing. He picked up a solid branch of driftwood and started up the rise.

  His trek was slow, but the distance was short. Upon reaching the crest of the brae, he sat on a boulder jutting through the long grass. One look and he recognized the place.

  Colin Macpherson had grown up sailing aboard ships. Standing on the stern deck beside his grandfather, his uncle, and lately his older brother, he’d covered this coast many times over the years. Colin was familiar with every port, every inlet, every island from the Shetlands to Dover in the east, and from Stornaway to Cornwall in the west. He’d sailed from Mull to France and back again a dozen times. And he knew the history of this Scottish coast as well as he knew his clan’s name.

  He was on the May, a small island east of the Firth of Forth. It was well known to sailors as a graveyard for errant ships. Many vessels, passing too close to the jagged rocks above and beneath the surface, had met their end along its western shore. And the sand bars to the east were just as deadly. A hill, the highest point, rose up almost at the center of the island. To the west sharp bluffs dropped off to the sea. To his right, he could see the sloping stretches of rock and sea grass that ended at the water. To his left, the low walls and the five or six ruined buildings of an abandoned priory.

  Knowing where he was eased Colin’s mind a great deal. He was safe here, and it was only matter of time before Alexander would turn his ship around and come looking for him.

  The wind at his back cut through his wet clothing, and he shivered as he pushed on. It was said that the island had once been a destination for religious pilgrims, drawing many across the water year after year. The priory, built centuries ago, had been dedicated to a St. Adrian, who’d been murdered here by marauding Danes in the dark time.

  As Colin made his way toward the buildings, he recalled hearing that the monks had deserted the island before his grandfather’s time. Only an old man and his wife lived out here now, feeding the occasional pilgrims and lighting a large fire during storms to warn the ships off.

  Colin didn’t remember seeing any fire in his one glimpse of the island before being swept overboard. But he didn’t believe the face he’d seen—a face already etched in his mind—had been very old, either.

  He fought off the fatigue that was gathering around him like a fog, and approached the stone buildings of the old priory. To his right he saw a protected hollow where a small flock of sheep huddled together out of the wind. Ahead, he couldn’t tell which of the decrepit buildings might have housed the couple.

  “HULLO!” At his shout the animals shuffled about and bleated loudly. Colin wished he knew something more of the keeper and his wife—even a name would have been a good place to start. No one was showing themselves, and the gray stone buildings showed no sign of anyone living inside of them.

  Crossing a moor of knee high grass, Colin found himself on a path, of sorts, that led past a little patch of land protected from the west wind by a grove of short, wind-stunted pines. The remains of what looked to be last year’s gardens affirmed that the couple still lived on the island.

  It wasn’t until he was past the first line of buildings that he saw wisps of smoke being whipped from a recently built chimney above a squat, two-story building. As Colin grew near, his excitement grew at the tidy condition of the protected yard.

  “Anyone here?” he called up the set of ancient stairs that lay beyond the door.

  The lack of an answer didn’t deter him. The wind was howling behind him. The steps had been recently swept. A large pile of gnarled driftwood was stacked neatly at the foot of the stairs. Colin drew in a deep breath and started up the stairs. Reaching the upper floor, he saw the glowing embers in the hearth at the end of the room.

  Someone had to be around, but the fact that they weren’t showing themselves didn’t make him feel particularly comfortable.

  “I intend no harm,” he said loudly, eyeing the slabs of smoked fish and long, looping strands of shells hanging from the low rafters. His gaze swept every dark corner and crevice. The dim light coming in through the narrow slits in the walls added to the faint light from the hearth, but did little to help brighten the room. “I was swept off my ship in the storm.”

  He stepped cautiously into the room. A torn net—half mended—lay by a small, carefully stacked pile of bleached whale bones. Something crunched beneath his boots. He looked down. All around the room, seashells of every size and description could be seen, and a small hill of them sat on a sheepskin in the corner, beside a small loom.

  The fire crackled and sparked in the hearth, drawing his attention again. He noticed the cauldron
hanging over the fire. Someone’s dinner. “I think someone…perhaps ‘twas you…pulled me out.”

  One thing that he remembered hearing about the old couple that lived on the island was that they’d never been particularly hospitable. But they’d also not been afraid of the fishermen or sailors who ended up on their shores.

  “My people will be back for me soon.” He spoke louder this time, eyeing the ladder resting against a wall. Near it, a line of dark boards across the beams created a loft area above. “I need to borrow a blanket…maybe some food…and I’ll repay you for it.”

  He climbed the ladder and peered into the darkness of the large open space above. The room appeared to be used for storage.

  “Hullo.” There was no one up here.

  Colin climbed back down the ladder and looked out the narrow slit of a window at the sea. The storm was still blowing hard, and he could barely see past the shoreline. He could only imagine how upset Alexander would be right now. But there was no coming after him this night or in this weather.

  Resigned to spend the night outside, Colin reached for a thick woolen blanket that sat on a shelf beside the hearth. As he picked it up, something that had been folded within the blanket fell onto the floor. He crouched and stared at a small bundle of mending at his feet. The intricate lace edging on a child’s white cap caught his attention first. He touched the soft wool cloth of a dress. Perplexed, he frowned at a child’s linen apron and again at the cap he’d seen first. He picked up the items one by one and looked at them intently, wondering why two old people would keep such things.

  He looked about the room again. There was one wooden bowl near the hearth—one spoon. On the floor in one corner, there was a small bed of straw and blankets suitable for one person. He touched the dress again. The dark eyes of a woman looking down at him flashed through his mind again. Colin carefully wrapped the bundle of child’s clothing in the blanket and put it back where he’d found it.