by Caroline Lee
The rain came down needle-sharp, and although Simone did her best not to complain, it became clear the lass was crying as she huddled under her plaid.
Mellie pulled on the oars for all she was worth, but the shore didn’t seem to be any closer. The winds had whipped up waves bigger than she’d ever seen, and more than a few towered over their wee rowboat, threatening to capsize it.
“Simone!” she yelled, holding the girl’s gaze even as she heaved on the oars. “Take off yer gown!”
“The water’s freezing!” the lass shouted back, sobbing.
When she shook her head, Mellie’s waterlogged braid barely moved. “Ye’ll survive the cold, but if ye go overboard, the gown will drag ye down.”
Nodding, the girl began to unlace her kirtle with shaking fingers, still crying in fear. That sight, more than anything, gave Mellie the strength to keep going.
She would not allow Lachlan’s daughter to drown.
How long would this storm last?
Jagged lightning flashed so close nearby, Mellie could taste it.
It felt like hours by the time Simone removed her gown and huddled only in her leine, her wee lips blue from cold, and her chin jutting determinedly. Mellie thought her arms would pull from her sockets, but she bit her lip and kept pulling.
There was enough water in the bottom of their boat now to make her wish she could take a break to bail. But a glance over her shoulder told her she was making some headway against the waves, and she couldn’t give up now.
It was Simone who dumped her bucket of fish over the side—which was a remarkable sacrifice for a six-year-old, Mellie thought in passing—and began to bail. Her teeth were chattering, but she looked just as determined as Mellie felt, and the woman called encouragement to the little girl as often as she could spare the breath.
Her fingers were cramped from her grip, and her palms splintered, when Simone glanced up.
“Mellie, look!” she cried, though her words were barely audible over a crash of thunder.
Mellie couldn’t afford to look, but prayed she guessed correctly at what it was the girl wanted to show her.
Surely God wouldn’t put more obstacles in their way now?
Leaning forward, she heaved one last time on the oars, and their boat made shore.
She almost cried out in joy.
Sainte Vierge! Blessed Mother of God, my thanks. Thank ye for Simone’s life, and for mine!
Mother Mary knew how badly she wanted to rest, to slump over the oars and allow her back to recover.
But Simone needed shelter, so Mellie forced herself to turn…then gaped up at the cliffs towering above them.
There was no shelter there. And with the storm raging so brutally, even by the lightning flashes, she could see there was no shelter nearby.
“Is the village close?” Mellie asked her young companion, as she offered her hand to Simone to clamber over the benches.
The girl grabbed her sodden gown as she shook her head. “There’s naught close,” she hollered over the storm.
That’s what I was afraid of.
Mellie could barely make her back work as she straightened, then all but rolled out of the boat into the surf.
Grabbing the gunwale, she shoved the boat further onto shore. At this point, it was their only shelter, as far as she could see, and she’d make use of it the best she could.
She pulled the oar from the lock, allowing it to fall into the water, and was pleased when Simone did the same for the other. Then the girl grabbed the opposite gunwale and began to heave along with Mellie.
Her strength was negligent, and her help minimal, but the knowledge the girl was fierce and determined made Mellie smile.
Despite the needle-sharp rain and the crashing waves, despite the lightning, which had them ducking every few seconds, they managed to get the boat out of the surf for the most part.
“Now what?” Simone shouted.
Instead of answering, Mellie pointed to the girl’s side of the boat, hoping she’d understand the plan.
Mellie hiked up her skirt—glad now she’d changed into the simple gray gown she’d worn the day she’d followed Lachlan into the alleyways of Scone—and planted one knee on the gunwale. As the waterlogged rowboat began to tip, she leaned more weight on it and reached for the opposite side, which was lifting.
It was precarious and dangerous, and it caused her arms to ache even more. But when Simone began to push from her side, they managed to tip the boat up completely on its side.
A bit farther, and the entire boat toppled toward her.
She heard Simone cry out a warning, but it was too late. Besides, this had been Mellie’s plan, even if she hadn’t quite thought it through all the way.
The rowboat came crashing down atop her, one of the benches slamming against her shoulder and dazing her. Trapped under the boat, she was pushed into the sand. One hand was caught under the side of the boat, which sent pain shooting clear up her arm, and she wondered if she’d broken any fingers.
Sainte Vierge, let me rest!
But she couldn’t. Simone was out there in the storm, and she needed Mellie.
With a curse, she pulled her fingers out from under the gunwale, and shifted to her hands and knees. Her shoulder ached fiercely, but she couldn’t allow herself to focus on that at the moment. Instead, she planted her hands and straightened her arms, and began pressing back against the bench.
With another grunt from her, the boat lifted, but just slightly.
“Mellie!” came Simone’s scream.
She wished she had the strength to answer, and prayed the girl would understand why she couldn’t.
“Mellie!” came the cry again, and then—miracle of miracles!—a stone was shoved under the gunwale.
It allowed Mellie to rest, even if for only too brief a moment, by holding the boat off the ground on one side. Simone’s frantic face appeared at the opening it made.
“Mellie, are ye aright?”
“Get in here, lass,” Mellie managed to grind out past her clenched jaw.
Simone disappeared, but a moment later, another stone appeared. Then the girl offered a tight nod. “I’m ready.”
With Mellie lifting and Simone wriggling, soon they were both under the boat, the stones propping it up and allowing Mellie to collapse, exhausted, in the wet sand.
They were safe, if not exactly warm and dry. The waves still lapped against the stern of the boat—and their feet—while the rain pounded above them. Lightning crashed and thunder boomed, but here, they wouldn’t be harmed.
Thank ye, sainted Mother of God.
Simone whimpered and threw herself atop Mellie as well as she could under the confines of the rowboat. Mellie wrapped her arms around the shivering, sobbing girl, and rolled to one side.
She curled herself around the lass, knowing, even wet, her body heat would help to keep her somewhat warm. She made sure the girl’s head was pillowed on her shoulder—even though the pressure reminded her of her recent injury—and wrapped her other arm around her tiny body.
“Shh, honey. ‘Twill be aright. We are safe here.” A sudden thought made her stiffen. “Unless this loch has tides?”
Through her sniffles, Simone gave a weak sort of chuckle. “Nay, the water will nae—”
A loud burst of thunder overhead caused Simone to jump and cry out. When Mellie tightened her hold on the wee one, Simone eventually sighed and relaxed a bit.
Mellie herself was freezing, but Court had long ago taught her how to control her body’s reaction to minor discomfort, and she used that mental trick now to make sure she didn’t succumb to shivers.
It was a long time—impossible to tell how long—that they lay there in the wet sand, Mellie rubbing the girl’s back and whispering calming words each time the thunder crashed overhead.
The rain ran under their makeshift shelter, creating little rivulets in the sand, and Mellie worried she should’ve had Simone garb herself again. But at least, with the quick-think
ing lass’s stones to prop up the gunwale, they had fresh air and a bit of light—however dim—in their shelter.
After a long time, that light began to grow a bit, and the thunder seemed to move farther away. It was only then that Mellie realized Simone was staring up at her.
“Are ye feeling better?” Mellie asked, pleased she didn’t have to yell over the noise of the storm any longer.
But Simone didn’t answer. Their noses were so close, they were almost touching. She stared at Mellie with wide gray eyes, her freckles becoming visible as the afternoon lightened.
Was the girl in shock?
“Simone?” she prompted again, becoming worried.
She could turn over again, lift the boat and shove the girl out through the crack, but how hard would it be for Mellie herself to wriggle out?
And Sainte Vierge, was she in any shape to carry Simone all the way back to the village?
She would be, by God.
“Ye saved me,” Simone finally whispered.
Mellie was so relieved the girl had spoken, she barely noted the words Simone had said.
Instead, she tightened her hold, until she was hugging the girl. “Aye, of course, honey. I cannae allow ye to come to harm, even for two prize fish.”
The lassie’s lips tugged into a frown. “I still won though. Even if I did lose the trout.”
“Ye sacrificed them to save us.” Mellie worked her arm free and tweaked the wee nose in front of her. “ ’Twas a verra brave thing to do.”
To her surprise, Simone flushed and looked away.
“What is it?” Mellie prompted gently. Her years with the Angels had taught her everyone reacted to near-death experiences in different ways. “Ye can tell me.”
“I wish…” Simone tucked her head under Mellie’s chin, so her next words were muffled. “I wish ye were my mother.”
And God help her, but the girl’s whisper wrapped around Mellie’s heart and squeezed, until she had trouble breathing.
Simone was six years old.
The age her own bairn would’ve been.
Tears suddenly flooded Mellie’s eyes, and she buried her face in the girl’s wet hair, unsure what to say.
Had this farce of a betrothal been real, she might’ve been able to assure Simone she would make a good mother. Because in that moment, Mellie knew she would make a good stepmother. She’d waited years for the chance, never begrudging the work she did for the Queen, but always yearning for something more.
This…this mission to An Torr might’ve been her chance, had it been a real betrothal.
But it wasn’t.
She was here with a job to do. She was an Angel.
And this precious wee lass in her arms had given her the opening she needed, if she could take it.
“I think…” God help her, could she question the girl, after everything they’d been through? She had to. She had to know if Lachlan was the good man he appeared to be, or the evil one she suspected. “I think yer mother would be verra proud of ye, and who ye’ve become.”
From her spot under Mellie’s chin, Simone snorted. “She wouldnae care. She left because she didnae love me enough.”
Mellie stiffened. “Who told ye that?”
Was that what Lachlan had told his daughter?
“Ella.” Simone pulled away enough to peek up at Mellie. “Only she didnae say it like that. But ‘tis the truth.”
“Nay,” Mellie began, trying to reassure the girl. “I’m sure she loved ye verra much, but she had to…”
What lie would be convincing?
When Simone shook her head, she knocked against Mellie’s bruise, releasing a hiss from Mellie the girl failed to notice. “Ye’re wrong. I ken what happened. Mother didnae want to be married to Da, and she didnae want to be a mother to me, so she left us both.” Her eyes pooled with tears. “If she’d loved me at all, she would’ve stayed.”
Didnae want to be married…?
Even as Mellie wrapped the girl in her arms once more and murmured soothing words, her mind was churning.
Was it true?
Or was it more likely the lass had overheard something and guessed incorrectly?
Why would any woman not want to be married to a man as fine as Lachlan?
As fine as Lachlan.
Only this morning, she’d been questioning herself and her opinions of the Fraser laird. She’d wanted to learn the truth about him, to determine if he was as good a man as everyone believed. She’d thought if she could discover the truth of his past, she would know the truth of his loyalties.
If she knew the truth of his loyalties, she would have a better chance of succeeding in her real mission: determining if Lachlan was capable of masterminding a plot against the Crown.
And here she had it.
As fine a man as Lachlan.
If Simone was right—if he hadn’t sent his former betrothed away—then mayhap he really was a fine man. A man who any clan would be proud to claim as their leader.
A good man.
A man who wasn’t guilty of treason.
Sainte Vierge, but her mind was a mess. Her body ached, her fingers were cramped, and her shoulder throbbed. Even though they were now safe, her mind couldn’t relax.
She had so many questions and—
Simone jerked. “Did ye hear that?”
Mellie had.
“Aye,” she whispered.
The rain was slowing now, and somewhere in the distance, she’d heard a man’s shout.
The girl pulled back to grin up at Mellie, her expression of hope warring with the tear marks on her cheeks.
“We’re saved!”
Mellie allowed herself to exhale.
“Aye,” she whispered again.
She held her breath, straining her ears to hear more. But other than the thunder fading in the north, they heard no more voices.
Which made the sudden shower of wet sand—as someone skidded to a stop on the other side of their makeshift shelter—a shock.
The two of them must’ve made some kind of noise, because the man cried, “Simone? God in Heaven, Simone?”
Lachlan!
His strong fingers curved under the gunwale, and he heaved with barely any exertion, wrenching the rowboat up off their rocks and exposing them to the now gentle rain.
But Mellie didn’t care. She clutched his daughter and stared up at their savior, his shock mirroring her own expression, she was certain.
“Mellie?” he blurted in a ragged whisper.
And that’s when she realized what he was asking.
All he could see was a bundle of wet wool and her hair. He didn’t yet know his daughter was safe.
She forced herself to relax, to peel her arms away, so that the lass could peek up at her father.
“Da?” she choked.
With a wordless cry, Lachlan heaved the boat completely upright, rolling it off them as if it weighed nothing. The force showered them with sand, but no more than he did when he threw himself to his knees there beside them and reached for his daughter.
“Simone,” he choked, pulling the girl from Mellie’s arms and burrowing his nose in her hair. “My precious lassie.”
Simone wrapped her own arms around her father, and when he began to rock back and forth, whispering harsh words of thanks to the Heavens against her hair, she patted his back.
“I’m aright, Da. Mellie saved me. She kept me safe.”
Lachlan’s eyes flashed open and he stilled, his daughter still crushed against his chest. He met Mellie’s eyes, and she suddenly realized how ridiculous she must look.
Awkwardly, she pushed herself upright, smoothing her hair back from her forehead in a fruitless attempt to compose herself.
He was still staring at her.
She swallowed, and unbidden, her thumbnail rose to her lips. She wanted to look away, to try to calm the pounding in her heart, at least until she could make sense of her reaction to this man.
But she couldn’t.
I
nstead, she watched as the terror in his eyes faded, to be replaced by something akin to wonder.
“Thank ye, Mellie,” he whispered.
She shrugged uncomfortably. “ ’Twas naught.”
Simone placed her hand on her father’s cheek and turned his head to look at her. “ ’Twas no’ naught, Da. She rowed us to shore in the storm. She flipped the boat. Her shoulder’s bleeding.”
Surprised, Mellie glanced down at her shoulder, and found she was bleeding, right where the bench had slammed into her. Through the rip in her kirtle and leine, the scrape was visible, and was already surrounded by a bruise. It was the sight of an old scar—something she’d rather Lachlan not see—which had her tugging at the material.
Simone had released her father, who had turned his incredulous gaze back to Mellie. “Ye truly are a wonderful mystery, milady.”
“I could say the same about ye.” The words burst from her lips before she could stop them.
Lachlan’s own lips curled gently into a smile, as he settled his daughter against his shoulder. “Ye have only to ask, lass. I told ye I’d share all my secrets with ye. But for now…” He heaved himself to his feet, Simone’s arms around his neck, and offered his hand to Mellie. “Let’s get ye both home.”
Home.
Thinking of the feel of the precious lass in her arms, and the words Simone had spoken, Mellie felt her throat close up with longing.
Could someplace like An Torr have been her home?
Could she have had a daughter like Simone?
Had things been different…
After only the briefest of hesitation, she placed her hand in Lachlan’s, and couldn’t hold back the groan as she pushed herself to her feet. She was here now, and although her mission was more confused than ever, she truly believed she’d been wrong about Lachlan.
He was a good man.
“Aye,” she choked out. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 8
Lachlan barely remembered the journey home.
His mind was a jumble of intense gratitude, awe, and lingering excitement. With his daughter against one shoulder, and his other arm around the most intriguing woman he’d ever met, he did his best to lead them back to the village.
He tried to imagine what it would’ve been like for the two of them, out on the loch alone, in such a violent storm. The Frasers had lost experienced fishermen in such storms before, but Mellie—a haughty lady—had not only rowed them to shore, but had also managed to create a shelter for her and Simone, and had kept his daughter safe.