by Lily Baldwin
His eyes widened when he saw the woman. Her hair was still damp. Dark red curls splayed across his pillow. A bandage covered the gash on her brow. Her head thrashed from side to side, and her body trembled. His chest tightened at the sight of her suffering. Straightaway, he dropped to his knees and snatched the rag from the wooden bowl. Squeezing out the excess water, he dabbed her cheek.
The moment the cloth touched her skin, her eyelids flew open.
He gasped, surprised by her sudden awakening and struck by the vibrant blue color of her eyes, apparent even in the soft glow of candlelight. But more than that, it was the pain he glimpsed in their stormy depths that made his breath catch.
She grabbed his tunic, pulling her face close to his. “Where are my girls?” she rasped. She held his gaze. Her whole body shook. Her eyes were pleading, desperate.
“I…I do not know,” he stammered.
A breath later, her eyes rolled back as she collapsed on the bed. He pressed his ear to her chest and blew out a breath of relief when he heard her heartbeat. It was weak, but still, she lived.
Where are my girls?
Searing heartbreak coursed through him as he guessed she referred to other passengers lost in the wreck. Could her daughters have been on board?
He sat back on his heels and reached for the mug of ale on his desk. Then he eased his arm behind her head and lifted her so that she might swallow safely. When he tilted the cup, she sputtered, and just as Robert had described most of what he poured down her throat came right back up. Still, he administered the ale, every precious drop counted.
Trading the mug for the damp rag, he tried to cool her burning cheeks, but she began to thrash more violently, her head rocking from side to side, her brows drawn together in a constant expression of anguish. Her troubled sleep seemed riddled with demons willing her to surrender to whatever torture they inflicted. He leaned close to her ear. “Do not give up,” he whispered. “Fight on!”
After more than an hour passed, he stood and stretched. There was hardly space enough for his large frame on the floor near the bedside. He hadn’t noticed the cramping in his muscles until she had suddenly grown quiet. He took a deep breath as he stared down at her. At the very least, she appeared almost peaceful. Her head no longer thrashed from side to side, but her mutterings continued. Mostly, her words were incoherent, although every now and then he heard a word or name. Ian. Destiny.
“Let me take over, Captain.”
He turned around, surprised to find Robert standing in the doorway.
“I didn’t hear you come down the stairs,” Tristan said before returning his gaze to the woman’s face. He knelt again and smoothed back her red curls. Her pallor had not improved. Ruddy, sunburned patches contrasted with deathly white splotches. Still, her condition could not diminish her beauty. Long, thick dark lashes fanned across her cheeks. Her nose was small and pert, and full lips moved as she continued to whisper. The lines at her eyes and those framing her mouth revealed her advancing years. He guessed she was only a few years younger than him.
“Has she gained consciousness?” Robert asked.
He shook his head. “She opened her eyes but for only a moment.”
“You should know that the men are talking,” Robert warned. “They fear she is a bad omen. Some worry she’s a silky or a lost princess.”
Tristan arched a brow at him. “Would a princess wear homespun wool and have calloused palms?”
“These are not my fears,” Robert said. “She is clearly a commoner, although there is nothing common about her appearance. She’s beautiful.”
“Striking,” Tristan said absently. He could hardly tear his eyes away. He hung on her every breath, waiting, praying for her to take her next one. “I would like to stay with her.”
“I’m afraid you must step outside into the hall,” Robert replied, drawing his gaze. “I’ve made a fresh poultice for her chest that should aid her breathing. There is simply not room for two men in here.”
Tristan scanned his close quarters. Robert was right, of course. He hated to go, but he knew she needed the surgeon’s skills. Leaning over her, his lips grazed her ear as he whispered, “Fight on.” Then he pushed against the bed to stand. He squeezed past Robert but hesitated in the doorway. Looking back, he said, “Do everything you can to save her.”
Robert nodded. “I will do my best.”
Tristan stepped into the hallway and renewed his pacing, but several minutes later, he stopped, knowing he was going to drive himself mad. He peered into his room. “I’m going aloft,” he said. “Fetch me if her condition changes.”
His gaze settled once more on her lovely face. Praying it was not the last time he saw her alive, he forced himself to close the door before heading up to the main deck.
Chapter Three
Rose’s head pounded. She strained to lift her eyelids, but they were too heavy. Her heart started to race faster. She wanted to sit up, but she could barely move her fingers. She tried to speak, but her lips wouldn’t part, nor could she peel her dry tongue off the roof of her mouth. It was too much, too hard. A pang of regret struck her heart as she surrendered once more to darkness.
Shrill cries echoed in the distance. “I am coming,” her heart screamed, her arms outstretched, desperate to save her babies, but no matter how fast she raced through the shadows, she could never reach them. Sorrow dragged her down, stealing her strength. Her own sobs mingled with those of her children while she trudged through a thick bog of despair.
“No more,” her heart screamed.
Again, she stirred, her head still pounding. She tried to open her eyes, only this time her lids lifted slightly. A blur of light and shadow crossed her vision, and then a shape came into focus. An older man with soft blue eyes and a bald head glinting in the dim light smiled down at her.
“Hello there,” he said softly. His wide grin dimpled his plump cheeks.
The light hurt her head. She closed her eyes, and again she tried to speak. Her thick tongue refused to move. Desperate tears stung her eyes, but then she felt pressure behind her neck. Her head lifted, and the rim of a bowl pressed to her mouth. Straining, she parted her lips, inviting the drink to enter. Wetness struck her tongue and throat. It felt so good that she wanted to cry. She opened her eyes again. This time she could tolerate the light. Her gaze passed over the friendly face in front of her before she scanned her crowded, windowless surroundings. Her gaze returned to the looming face. She opened her mouth to ask where she was, but the words would not come. Lifting her head, she struggled to sit up. Her mounting fear made her heart race faster.
“There, there,” the man said, his soft voice cutting through her panic. “Lay back down. You are safe now, but it is too soon to try to speak. Rest, and later today or tomorrow you can tell us how you came to be adrift on the open sea.” He smiled down at her. “I will go tell the captain that your fever has finally broken. He will be very pleased.” Then the man turned and left.
While she lay there, her unfamiliar surroundings blurred. Her eyes closed as if of their own accord. Waves lulled her toward sleep.
Waves?
Her eyes opened.
Captain?
A ship—she must be on a ship.
But how did she get there?
The slatted wood surrounding her grew hazy. Her lids were so heavy. She closed her eyes once more and allowed the rocking ship to bring her mind back to the last thing she remembered. She had been standing on the beach, staring up at the moon as she always did. Her heart had felt empty, and then Ian had come to her and given her a gift…Aye, he had given her a skiff.
The skiff.
Suddenly, she remembered…
Ian left Colonsay to answer Abbot Matthew’s call. Scotland needed him. But his leaving broke Rose’s already shattered heart. That night, she lay on her pallet, her heart pounding in her chest, wishing that Ian was still on the isle or better yet that she had been able to go with him. Just as she was sinking into fresh despair,
she remembered what Abbot Matthew had told Ian. “God is like the stars guiding a man’s ship, but it is the man who makes his own destiny.”
“What of a woman?” she whispered out loud. She clasped her hand to her chest. She felt as if her heart was going to beat straight through her skin. Pushing aside her blanket, she stood and padded across the cool packed earth. Without bothering to grab her shawl, she threw open her door. Beyond the tall, sleek grass bending in the wind, she could see the sea painted in the colors of night: charcoal, violet, and a blue so deep and dark the beauty of it made her breath catch. The waves, crashing frosty silver in the moonlight, called to her, beckoning her to leave behind her empty thatched home for its shores, which writhed with life. A shiver of excitement crept up her spine as she followed its call. Wind whipped her tunic about her legs and swept her long red curls away from her eyes and off her neck. She lifted her arms out to the side like the wings of a bird, feeling like the strength of the wind could lift her clear off the ground so that she might soar over the waves. She stared longingly at the horizon. If only she could set sail just as Ian had.
“God is like the stars guiding a man’s ship, but it is the man who makes his own destiny.”
Could she?
A woman setting out on the sea alone was foolhardy. Rose shook her head and started along the shore back to the gentle quiet of her hut. She had never been foolhardy a day in her life. But then she froze. The wind had forced her door open. The shadowy entrance mocked her with its emptiness. With a deep breath, she trudged forward. For so long now, eight years, she had carried on with the strength of a warrior, but every day it was harder and harder to go on.
One needed a reason to rise each day. But what reason did she have?
With a strangled cry, she quickened her pace, trying to outrun her own self-pity. It made her feel weak—like a sinner whose heart was ungrateful. She stumbled over a piece of drift wood and fell forward in the loose sand. Rolling over, she wiped her tears and lay numbly, staring up at the three stars on Orion’s belt.
“What should I do, my sweet lassies?”
Turning away from the night sky, she scooped a handful of sand and watched it seep from her hand, just like the sands of her own life slipping away from her.
“Enough,” she snapped and stood and gazed up at the lonely moon.
“What would you do?” she whispered.
The moon stared back with its unblinking eye, forcing her to take an honest look at what burned within her own heart.
An instant later, she stormed back toward her hut with fresh thoughts racing through her mind…
What did she have to lose?
Nothing was ever going to happen to her if she remained in her little hut on Colonsay.
She had the skill and sensibility to sail and travel.
Why stay grounded, when she wanted to fly?
Her brothers had all known adventure. Now, it was her turn.
She gathered a satchel together with a change of tunic, the coin she had saved from fishing, and some bannock and dried meat. Then she scribbled out a letter on a scrap of parchment—"I’ve set off to explore the surrounding isles. I promise I will take great care.”
With a lightness in her step that she had not known for years, she scampered down the shore to the beach. After placing her satchel in the flat bottom of her sailing skiff, she untied the rope from the mooring and climbed inside. Then, with neither hesitation nor fear, she pushed against the pier and began to drift away.
Still too close to shore to catch the wind, she reached for the oars and secured them in their locks before she started to row. Outlined against the dark horizon were her family’s small huts, each with candles still burning. She thought of Jack and Bella and imagined that they nestled together in their own bed, surrounded by Jack’s adopted lassies and their own sweet daughter. Her gaze shifted to Quinn and Catarina’s hut. She envisioned them sitting together by the fire while young Nicholas and his wee sister slept nearby. Rory and Alex, she decided, were singing a song to their wee son while Alec and Joanie lay together in the next hut, dreaming of what it would be like to have a child of their own.
Rose’s heart brimmed full of joy for her brothers, and she gazed lovingly at her island home. “I will return,” she promised.
Chapter Four
A gentleness crept into Rose’s mind, stirring her awake. A soft breeze or warm sunshine alighted upon her face. She lay enjoying the sensation. Then, she realized it was neither the wind nor the sun, but a gentle touch. Someone was stroking her cheek. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and a new face came into focus. He had black hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. Warm, brown eyes were set deep beneath a strong brow. His nose was straight with a slight flare to his nostrils and full lips curved in a soft smile as he looked down at her.
“Good morrow,” he said, his voice deep but soft.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue felt so thick. A strong arm came behind her neck and raised her head. She took a long sip of ale, then closed her eyes as the liquid wet a path through her mouth, then down her throat. Relief came immediately.
“More,” she whispered.
Again, he helped her sip. She savored the rush of moisture.
When she had drunk enough, he eased her head back down. Concern filled his warm eyes as he gazed down at her. Then, once more, the backs of his fingers slowly grazed her cheek. She had no idea who the man was. She knew not his name, but his touch felt so familiar. She closed her eyes and let it soothe her.
“My name is Tristan Thatcher. Welcome aboard the Messenger.”
His softly spoken words moved through her like a puzzle, a riddle she had to decipher. When his meaning was at last clear, she whispered, “Tristan.”
But she didn’t want to talk. She just wanted him to continue stroking her cheek. “Put yer hand on me,” she whispered
And he did.
His hand gently rested on her forehead, and again she slept and dreamed of warm, brown eyes. They watched over her. Strong hands held her. Still, nothing could chase away the approaching storm from her dreams.
Her sail billowed. She positioned the steering oar to point north toward the Isle of Mull. The sky was clear. Bright stars shone down to guide her way. But then suddenly the wind picked up—a wild wind that seemed to come from every direction. A cold chill swept through her as dark clouds appeared, menacing streaks, which spread from all sides of the sky. They licked at the stars like black serpent’s tongues, swallowing them from view. She fisted her hands as the last slivers of star-studded sky disappeared behind the threatening clouds, which writhed with ferocious life.
A storm, fierce and wild, was brewing. This she did not doubt. Still, she pushed on. It was too late to turn back, just like she could never go back to happier days when she had a family of her own and a husband who loved her. She had no choice but to face the weather head-on.
The seas began to churn. Heavy clouds let loose their stores. Rain pelted down in harsh sheets, soaking her and puddling in the bottom of her small hull. She dropped the sail and tied it off. Then she seized her steering oar and fought for control.
Lightning crashed. Thunder roared. The waves rose high and smashed down upon her small boat, tossing it about. The boards creaked against the force. The bow of the hull splintered, inviting more water inside. The wind whipped her feet out from under her. She fell back in the water-logged hull. The furious sky screamed down at her. She scrambled to her feet and shouted back. She screamed with all her rage, all her might.
“Ye’ll never best me.” She shook her fist at the sky, at God, at herself. “Ye’ve already tried to sink me. Ye’ve taken everything.” She held up her empty arms. “Do yer best. Strike me down. I care not whether I live or die.”
A flash of lightning barreled at her. She screamed as it struck the tall mast. An explosion of splintered wood rained down. The mast fell like a tree in the forest. She raised her arms against the blow. And then the world turned black
.
Rose sat up with a start. Her heart pounded. Thunder still echoed in her mind. Her eyes scanned the small quarters and quickly settled on a strange man at her side. She jerked the blanket up to her chin. “Who are ye?” she snapped. “Where am I?”
Chapter Five
The man stood. Her gaze traveled the length of his great height. She’d wager he could even look Ian in the eye. A warm smile curved his lips as he bowed. “My name is Tristan Thatcher. You are on board my ship, the Messenger, and presently, you are in my quarters.”
Her eyes widened. “Yer quarters?” she gasped. “How did I…” Her voice trailed off as her fingers reached for her brow. She winced, feeling the bandage. Straightaway, she knew it was where the mast had struck her. She closed her eyes against the memory of howling wind and roaring thunder.
“The storm. There was a storm. I was sailing. It was too late to turn back.”
“Please, try to remain calm,” the man said softly.
She gripped the blanket so hard her knuckles whitened as the intonation of his speech broke through her muddled thoughts. “Ye’re English. This is an English vessel.”
Slowly, the man sat back down beside her, which set her heart to race faster. She squeezed as far as she could against the wall.
A moment later, he stood again. “You need not fear me. I have no quarrel with the Scottish. In fact, my mother was Scottish, God rest her soul.”
~ * ~
Tristan held his breath as he watched the woman’s grip on the blanket slowly loosen. Still, tension remained in her stiff posturing. He could only imagine how terrified and confused she must feel—to wake up in a strange place and in the company of an unknown man. More than that, he knew some of her worry and fear must have been for her fellow travelers. He cleared his throat, deciding it would not be fair to give her any false hope. “We came upon you, floating on splintered timber, the remains of your vessel, no doubt.” He swallowed hard, hating to say the words, but he knew he must. “You were alone. Whomever you sailed with, I’m afraid, has likely been lost.”