by Cathy MacRae
Ranald clapped Kinnon on his shoulder in acknowledgement and hurried to the corner cabinet. Finlay crowded close, watching over Ranald’s shoulder as he ran his hand over the wooden panel.
He growled with impatience. “I can open it.” He pushed Ranald aside and shoved his shoulder hard against the cabinet’s side. The door swung outward with a crash and Finlay gave a grunt of satisfaction.
Ranald motioned at Tavia. “Give me the torch.” He turned to Finlay, a frown of regret on his face. “Stay here. Ye must hold the castle. I dinnae know if Kinnon is strong enough.” He shook his head to forestall Finlay’s protest. “I must do this. And so must ye.”
Finlay’s unspoken protest was plain to see on his face and he appeared to teeter on the verge of disobeying a direct order. For a moment, Ranald was not sure if he would or not. But with Hamish dead and the laird’s son too weak to physically control the clan, there was no other immediate choice. Someone must keep the castle secure.
With his next words, Ranald sealed his captain’s obedience. “Protect Gilda.”
Finlay stepped back, nodding curtly.
Tavia grasped Ranald’s sleeve. “Find my lass.” The edge to her voice warned him to return empty-handed would not be tolerated. “And skewer the bastard MacEwen.”
Ranald paused only long enough to rasp, “Aye,” before he plunged down the winding stairs.
Damp walls glittered like dark jewels in the torchlight. Ranald ducked to avoid points of roughly hewn rock jutting from the low ceiling. He raced along, the slick floors giving poor purchase beneath his feet. He slipped once, the bark of his curse echoing eerily in the tunnel.
At last, daylight beamed from below, lighting his way. The final twist of the stairs opened into a little room, the portal at the end of the Pirate’s Stair standing ajar. Ranald tossed his flickering torch to the side and raced through.
He skidded to a halt, staring hard at the ground for an indication of where MacEwen and Riona had gone. Displaced rocks and pebbles marked the way. He turned to his right, following the faint path, and rounded the point before he spotted the boat with the single sail slipping away from the beach. Riona’s auburn hair flared in the wind, and MacEwen gave the skiff a final shove before leaping aboard.
Ranald’s stomach clenched. He needed a boat.
* * *
Morgan MacEwen looked up, stark fury on his face. Startled by his expression, Riona swiveled on her seat, peering over her shoulder.
Ranald.
He stood on the shore, so close, and yet so far. Already MacEwen’s boat caught the waves rushing out into the firth.
MacEwen tightened the sail against the mast and boom, setting it to catch the wind. He shoved Riona off the bench and into the bottom of the boat. Settling himself on the wooden seat, he grasped the tiller, nosing the small craft into the waves, taking them out to sea.
Riona struggled to sit up, tugging against her tether.
MacEwen pushed her back with a booted foot. “Dinnae fash, my lady. He willnae come after ye. Everyone kens yer husband isnae a sailor.”
He grunted. “He’ll keep his distance or I’ll cut ye loose and drop ye overboard.” He brought his face close to hers. “Try swimming with yer hands bound. Ye’ll go straight to the bottom.”
Riona fell silent. She was certain if Morgan felt threatened, he’d trade her life for his without pause. Thinking quickly, she rolled from beneath his boot and came up in a crouch beyond his reach. To get to her, he would have to leave his position at the tiller and risk slowing the boat’s progress as it cut across the waves. Peeking over the edge of the hull, Riona stared at the beach. It was empty.
She pushed herself up, hands straining against the binding cords. Overhead a gull wheeled, piercing the air with his cries. Sea spray misted over the sides of the boat, plastering strands of hair to her face. She tasted the salty tang, felt it sting her eyes. Ranald was nowhere to be seen.
Disbelief tore at her heart. Would he give up so easily? Had her impetuous actions cost her so dearly?
A sudden, vicious oath burst from MacEwen’s lips, and Riona turned back to the shore. Several lengths from where she’d last seen Ranald, she spied him racing across the shore, dragging an oared dinghy.
* * *
Waves rushed over his boots as Ranald tugged the little boat into the water, bracing both hands on the edge of the hull to keep it from slipping away as it bounded to life atop the waves.
His stomach pitched as the boat crested and rocked back and forth. He swallowed hard and climbed in, grabbing the oars and seating himself on one of the wooden benches. He set his back to the job, feet braced against the boards, adding power to his strokes. The wind worked with his efforts and the dinghy skimmed the surface like an arrow shot from a tight-strung bow.
Seawater sluiced about his feet. Ranald ignored it, watching the skiff as it leapt across the firth, his wife’s face barely visible above the side.
Ahead, the wind gust that had filled the skiff’s sail suddenly died. The MacEwen sculled the tiller back and forth in an attempt to keep the skiff headed up the coast. But the little boat made no headway against the current and MacEwen released the tiller, searching for something beneath the seat.
Knowing he’d soon attain that same dead pocket of air, Ranald redoubled his efforts and the distance to the skiff closed rapidly. Both boats were now far up the coastline and entering a secluded cove. His attention on MacEwen, it took Ranald a moment to register the red-sailed birlinn rocking gently at harbor.
His blood chilled as he viewed the large boat, bristling with weapons. And pirates.
MacEwen swung about with a curse, a single oar in one hand. He waved it about, shouting in anger, apparently unable to find its mate. Ranald would have chuckled were the stakes not so grim. Even as poor a sailor as he was, he knew one paddle was almost useless. With a final pull on his own oars, the hull of the dinghy scraped alongside the skiff. Ranald braced himself as the two boats collided.
MacEwen did not acknowledge the impact with anything more than a turn of his head. Balanced with his feet spread wide, he bent his knees slightly to counter the action of the waves.
An evil grin cleaved his beard and he stooped to grab Riona’s arm, hauling her to her feet. “Is this what ye came for, Scott?” He cocked his head toward her bedraggled state. “Not worth much just now, is she?”
Riona snarled something unintelligible and twisted away from his grip. MacEwen laughed and kicked her feet from under her, sending her sprawling in the bottom of the boat, her head bouncing off the edge of the hull as she fell.
With a roar of outrage, Ranald launched himself into the skiff. The dinghy gave a treacherous heave beneath his boots and he misjudged the height of the skiff’s hull. He clipped his knee painfully on the wooden edge and slid across the floor planks.
Coming up on the opposite side of the mast, Ranald leapt to his feet, grasping at the wooden spar for balance.
“Cut me loose.”
He glanced at Riona. A rope trailed from her hands to the mast. Ranald slipped a dagger from his boot. With a quick swipe, he cut her free then handed her the short blade. Their gazes locked for a long moment. Movement from MacEwen broke their contact.
He pulled a dirk from his boot, weaving it back and forth in a taunting motion. He lurched toward Ranald, his eyes glinting. “So, ye came after her. I suppose ye dinnae mind another man’s leavings.” He grinned at Ranald’s glare. “Ye can keep the wean she’s already borne. But how will ye know if the next one is yers or mine?”
Ranald forced MacEwen’s taunts from his mind, needing all his wits to counter the nausea boiling through him, though from the boat’s movements or the images invoked by MacEwen’s words, he wasn’t sure. He gritted his teeth and slipped a dirk from his belt. The blade felt good in his hand, and his fingers closed about the hilt, locking into their accustomed position, as if the knife was part of him.
MacEwen lunged forward, his blade flashing in the sun. Ranald ducked
behind the mast, out of the dagger’s lethal arc. The boat pitched as its load shifted and Ranald stumbled. MacEwen closed the gap between them and launched another attack, but Ranald parried each thrust with his own blade.
Fighting on a heaving surface was an unknown to him, but he suspected the MacEwen had won many a battle on such footing. The shorter man was well-built for such action, and his stocky legs kept effortless balance as the skiff rolled back and forth. Ranald grabbed the mast for leverage, his position precarious at best.
“Here!”
His sharp glance at Riona was quick enough to catch a handful of the skiff’s rigging as she tossed it to him. He wrapped part of the sail around his forearm, leaving a portion trailing.
MacEwen nodded at Ranald’s defensive move, and with a grin slipped free his sgian dubh. The blade winked at Ranald as if to mock him. Ranald’s eyes darted to the weapons in MacEwen’s hands. Though shorter in length, the sgian dubh was potentially as deadly as Ranald’s slender-bladed dirk.
He motioned with his sail-wrapped arm. “Come, then, MacEwen. Let us finish this.”
“The better man gets the lass?” MacEwen mocked.
Ranald’s eyes narrowed. “The loser goes to hell.”
* * *
Riona’s head pounded. The two men separated into four wavering, sparring figures before merging back to their original number. Ranald staggered as the skiff heaved, and her heart stopped in her chest. He was no sailor and had never fought as such. MacEwen held every possible advantage.
The sun seemed impossibly bright to her eyes. She blinked as the waves tossed light in every direction. She stepped to one side, placing the sail between her and the sun. With a flash of inspiration, she used the dagger Ranald had given her and cut a large section of sail away and tossed it to him. His eyes flashed a brief thanks before he wound it about his arm.
MacEwen now wielded two knives and Riona could not tear her gaze away as the two men tested each other.
Ranald heaved to the side, waving his wrapped arm back and forth, ready to foil the MacEwen’s blade within the cloth. MacEwen flexed his fingers on his dirk. The air was still, even the gulls silent as Riona struggled to draw a breath.
Suddenly MacEwen crouched and leaped, his weight causing the skiff to list. As Ranald fought for his balance, MacEwen closed in, his knife slicing through Ranald’s sleeve.
Ranald spun about, placing the mast at his back. His arm rose as MacEwen swung his sgian dhub in an upward arc, aimed for a killing blow beneath Ranald’s ribs.
With a twisting move, Ranald captured the short blade in his makeshift drapery. A quick jerk and the sgian dhub clattered to the planks. Ranald kicked it away.
MacEwen covered the fleeting surprise in his eyes with a nod. “Clever move. But ye willnae best me.”
A small, feral smile, the first Riona had seen, curved Ranald’s lips. “We shall see.”
He mimicked MacEwen’s crouching stance again, taking the roll of the boat in his legs. Although Riona breathed easier, she knew MacEwen was a dirty fighter who attempted nothing he did not think he could win.
MacEwen rushed forward, his knife drawn back for a powerful thrust. Ranald slid to the side, the edge of the hull behind his knees. As MacEwen’s blade arced through the air, Ranald jumped to the narrow ledge, his boots scrambling for purchase on the water-slicked wood. MacEwen leapt nimbly after him, and Ranald was forced to retreat into the belly of the boat, a lucky swipe of his knife drawing a curse from MacEwen and a line of blood across the back of his hand.
Ranald slipped on the wet boards. MacEwen gave a shout of triumph as he lunged after him. Riona lashed out with one foot, tripping the over-eager pirate. Both men crashed to the boards. Hands braced against the planks, Ranald rolled away. The wind caught what remained of the sail. The boom swung about, sheets dangling from either end, catching Riona a hard blow against her side, the force driving her to her knees.
Ranald’s grunt of pain reached Riona’s ears as MacEwen’s next thrust went home. As MacEwen leapt away, red bloomed through Ranald’s shirt. He grasped his arm and staggered to his feet, blood oozing between his fingers.
“Have a nice time in hell,” MacEwen mocked, his triumphant grin wide. He grabbed Ranald’s wound in a vicious grip and drew his knife back, its blade dark with blood, pausing as he savored the moment.
With a snarl, Ranald shoved upward with his injured arm. “You first.”
MacEwen gazed downward, his eyes wide with shock. The handle of his own sgian dubh protruded from his belly, the blade buried deep within. Ranald rotated his wrist, opening the wound in MacEwen’s abdomen, hastening his death as blood poured forth. Slowly the pirate’s knees buckled and he slumped to the planks.
Ranald staggered to his feet, his breath in harsh gasps. With a grunt, he heaved MacEwen’s body over the side of the skiff and watched it float face down on the waves. He turned to Riona and she read the battle-lust still raging within.
The skiff bobbed on the waves, sail flapping uselessly against the mast, the single oar nowhere to be seen.
“Can ye swim?” His voice came to her harsh and distant.
A shout rang out across the water. Both she and Ranald turned to see a small boat lowered over the side of the MacEwen birlinn. She stiffened.
Intent on the battle between Ranald and MacEwen, she’d forgotten the pirates.
Chapter Thirty One
Ranald grabbed Riona’s hand and rushed the edge of the hull, launching from it into the water. They clove the waves in a clean arc and struck out toward the dinghy which floated a short distance away. For a moment, Riona kept pace, but her saturated gown quickly dragged her under. With a gasp, she floundered, gulping sea-water as a wave slapped her face. She choked and lost her bearings.
Water closed over her head. She kicked her feet wildly to push back to the surface, tangling in the wet cloth of her dress. Waves buffeted her from side to side, and her chest burned as the need to breathe grew. She fought the sensation, clenching her teeth to keep from opening her mouth and swallowing the sea.
She pushed toward the light. Her head broke the surface and she gasped, dragging air and sea spray deep into her lungs. She choked on the salty, misted water and slipped downward again.
“Ranald!” Her voice was lost in the cries of gulls and the crash of the waves.
Something grabbed her wrist and she jerked in surprise. An arm wrapped about her middle, pulling her above the surface of the water. She collapsed against the firm support behind her and did not struggle as she was dragged through the waves.
* * *
Ranald caught the edge of the hull. “Grab the side.”
Riona tried, but her fingers couldn’t find purchase. He slapped a hand to her rump, kicking his feet to give himself purchase in the water as he shoved her upward. She spilled into the boat, thudding gracelessly to the floor. A moment later, Ranald joined her.
He landed on his injured shoulder and rolled. The wind caught the little boat, tossing it on the waves. Ranald swallowed the nausea eating a hole in his stomach.
Riona staggered to her knees. She pointed to the birlinn. “They have stopped to pull the MacEwen from the water.”
With an effort, Ranald rose, adjusting his weight to keep the dinghy from listing to the side. A small boat launched from the MacEwen birlinn sat beside the skiff, some distance away. Ranald retrieved the oars from the bottom of the dinghy and set them in the locks on either side. Flexing his arms, he dug into the water, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm.
Riona gripped the sides of the boat, crouched on the bench facing Ranald. He stared past her for a moment, intent on his efforts, watching the pirates row back to the birlinn. His gaze slid to his wife, obviously cold and uncomfortable. He wondered what she was thinking. Did she worry about Gilda? About what she would find when she got back to the castle? Was she wondering about him?
Nonsense. She’d turned her back on him. Her distrust of him was clear. His stomach twisted agai
n, but this time with the knowledge he’d failed her. She sat silently, her hair stiff with salt water, straggling down her back. The curves which had delighted him only a day before were now displayed beneath a wet, tattered dress.
Gone was the glow of happiness. She closed in on herself, silent and withdrawn, and it broke his heart to see her thus.
“Gilda will be glad to see ye,” he offered.
Riona’s eyes met his, and Ranald flinched at the haunted look within their depths.
“Aye.”
They drifted in silence.
* * *
Riona blinked back tears. Her heart was full to bursting and she longed to know if Ranald still blamed her for her actions. He’d acted so bitter earlier, yet he cared enough to hunt for her and risk the seas to save her. And all he could say was Gilda would be glad to see her.
She knew she looked a mess. She wasn’t normally vain about her appearance, but as he stared at her, his eyes changed. If he was moved to touch her now, it would be from pity, not love or desire. Riona gathered her hair in her hands and pulled it over her shoulder, trying to finger-comb it into some semblance of order. She stared at Ranald again, but his face remained a mask, inscrutable.
Joyous sounds of barking split the air. Ranald and Riona jerked their attention to the beach as Senga and Pol raced toward them. An unguarded look of relief bloomed on his face as he watched the dogs frolic in the waves.
The dinghy bumped gently against the beach and Ranald grasped the edge of the hull on either side, crouching low as he moved forward. He slipped over the side and dragged the little boat onto the shore. The dogs leaped around him.
“Get by, dogs.” He swatted at them good-naturedly, dodging their wet paws as they crowded close. He ruffled their ears affectionately.
He turned back to the boat, offering Riona his hand. She rose carefully, accepting his help. His hand was warm on hers, and it felt wonderful. He pulled her forward, caught her by her waist, and lifted her to the ground. Sniffing once at Riona’s feet, the dogs left for more interesting prey.