Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion

by Janet Chapman

  She caught the current and righted herself, propelled into the Pentland Firth. MacNab caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A few of the Irish sailors crossed themselves. He saw Patch’s hands were clenched fists at his sides.

  The real challenge had just begun.

  They whipped fast into the channel, and the air, the sky, everything, simply felt . . . different. Charged somehow, and ethereal. Like they’d crossed an invisible threshold, leaving the world they’d known, traversing into some other, stranger place. One of forfeits and penance.

  MacNab shook his head hard. Stay sharp.There was no time for these relentless reveries.

  He smelled the wind before he felt it. A prick of fresh air in his nostrils. And he gazed into the far distance to where the water seemed to boil, churning the surface, cutting across the firth like a great ruff of lace.

  “’Tis the muir bhàite,” a voice said from behind him. Haddie had come above deck, and the old man was oddly still at MacNab’s side. His superstitious panic had quieted. He sensed it, too, MacNab saw. This eerie passage taking them to someplace other.

  “The muir bhàite,” Haddie muttered again. “The drowning sea.”

  Twelve

  “Belay the main,” MacNab ordered. The firth tossed waves like a petulant girl her hair, and he’d batten the Charon down. Something was coming, something greater than any storm. “Lash it to the mast.”

  He didn’t like the strange swath of turbulent sea that cut directly across their path. They had too much momentum; they were cruising straight for it. They had to quit the current.

  “Cut the sea anchor,” he called, and he saw panic flicker in his men’s eyes. The situation was grave indeed if they were to sacrifice such a valuable swath of canvas. “Cut the lines!”

  His men sliced the Charon free of her underwater sail, but it wouldn’t be enough. More than simply heading into a channel, it was as though they’d entered a tunnel, one that was subject to different wind, waves, and weather.

  A renegade wind smacked them. It keened through the rigging, a sharp blast, come and gone like the shriek of a woman. An eerie silence reigned once more.

  “ ’ Tis a demon sea,” someone shouted.

  “Focus like the men you are,” MacNab growled. “Furl the sails.” They needed to draw in all the sheets. The wind they’d been lusting for was beginning to nip. If it grew as big as he feared while the sheets were unfurled, it’d snap the mast in two. “I’ll not risk the mast.”

  MacNab edged forward and clung to the bow. The vein of water continued to roil in the distance, and it mesmerized him. They were closing fast.

  “’ Tis the sea witch,” Haddie said. The old man’s tone was calm and steady, as if he’d glimpsed the future and knew there was no turning back. “She lies yonder, in the depths below, grinding salt for the sea.”

  As if summoned, the first wave seemed to rise straight up from still water, coming at them from the side. The ship simply bobbed low at the stern, pitched, and then a great white claw curled up and over, grasping at the rails, pulling the Charon down hard. She hung sideways for one heart-stopping moment, then bobbed sharply back to starboard, sending the men skittering over the deck and snatching desperately at the lines to keep themselves aboard.

  “Grab the lifelines,” he shouted, doing a quick headcount. MacNab was relieved the watch had changed over an hour past. There were only nine hands on deck, plus his mate and Haddie. “The lines,” he yelled again, and his men scrambled for the rails, holding tight to the weather lines.

  And then, inexplicably, they were struck from the opposite side. It was violent, like the sudden slap of a raging mistress, vengeful and giddy with her anger.

  And then the water began to boil. The waves dwarfed them and the Charon became merely a child’s plaything tossed about. Another wave struck them, and another.

  Water swelled up to gorge on Charon’s timber, flooding her. Froth swirled along the deck, and for a strange, still moment all was serene and white, as though there’d been a light dusting of snow. And then the froth whirled, receding quickly like a recoiling snake, trying to suck the sailors back into the depths.

  “Tie off the mainsail!” MacNab shouted to those few men clinging to the yards above. “Belay the sails.”

  His eyes scanned the mast. It struck him as a pitiful, reedy thing, ready to snap like a piece of rotted wood.

  An enormous swell rolled beneath them, and the ship heaved, pointing upward. The horizon spun away, until all they saw was the leaden sky through a haze of mist. She slammed back down.

  How long would the Charon last? How long until they crossed this unending swath of turbulence? His eyes scanned the deck. MacNab was tired, his own heart grown cold, but he’d not suffer his men. “Man the lookout!” he ordered. “Where does this end? Tell me where this godforsaken churn ends!”

  The ship’s boy hurtled up the lines to the crow’s nest. The men’s chaos stilled for a moment, as all stopped to watch him lean forward, squinting and concentrating on the horizon.

  “Gurge!” the boy screamed suddenly, pointing frantically in the distance. “A gurge!”

  Whirlpool.

  “Swilkie, she’s called,” Haddie said ominously. The old cook wove the lifeline around his fist, bracing for the worst. “The swallower.”

  MacNab had no time to contemplate this. He heard gasps and spun, already feeling the growing shadow at his back.

  A mountain of water came for them, an enormous wave barreling across the firth, so magnificent it seemed a living thing, a monster risen from the deep. Black, marbled with white, and impermeable as stone. The wave was death incarnate, and it was a thing of beauty.

  She brought with her a rumble of sound, like an angered god, and a fierce blast of wind struck them. It was a wind straight from hell, but cold, so cold.

  “Hang on,” he bellowed uselessly. Noise filled his head—the cries of his men, the groaning of timber, the wailing of the wind in the rig.

  And then the wall pummeled them.

  They knew an eternity of silence. For a moment they were merely helpless bits of flotsam, weightless and meaningless, and all wondered if this would be their grave. But the wave pulled back with a hiss, leaving them human again, with their human sounds. Sounds of men scurrying, of torn sails flapping—mundanity so utterly out of place from the unearthly majesty of moments before.

  MacNab surveyed the damage. Miraculously, the mast still stood. But the jib had torn free from the rigging. It’d been the foremost sail, a triangular sweep reaching from the top of the mast to the very tip of the bowsprit. It hung now, in front of the Charon, dangling dangerously close to the waves. If it went under, caught water, the ship would capsize in an instant.

  “Cut the jib!” MacNab shouted, but Patch was already at the bow, edging his way out along the sharp point of the bowsprit.

  And just beyond, the vortex churned, drawing them ever closer. It swirled madly, an eddy crafted of pure darkness, with an angry mouth of white froth waiting to swallow them. It thundered, ravenous.

  Patch eased along the knife-edge of the bowsprit. Another wave struck them, and all held their breath as the first mate was submerged in a wall of white.

  It receded, and all sighed relief to see him clinging there still. He had a wild-eyed look, hanging desperately from the point of the bow, shrouded in sea spray. Patch’s hand patted at his waist, but his dagger was gone, ripped free of its sheath.

  The lines were a hideous snarl. Patch shook the curtain of hair from his face and was trying to make sense of them when the next wave struck. It came at them from leeward, and the nose of the Charon dipped dangerously low. The first mate slid. His hands slipped free of the slick wood and the men gasped as he plummeted down to the seething water.

  But just before his head hit the waves, the line snapped taut. He swung like a pendulum, swooping over the open sea then back again, perilously close to the hull. Patch hung, upside down, his leg tangled in the rigging.

&n
bsp; One of MacNab’s crewmen was at the rail in an instant, kicking off his boots, getting ready to inch out onto the bowsprit.

  “No,” MacNab told him. His eyes went to his first mate. Patch was a good man, deserving of that cottage and wife. MacNab trusted only himself to save him. “I’ll do it,” he told the sailor. He pulled his knife free. He curled his toes, feeling the solid connection between the Charon’s timber and his always-bare feet. “This is for me to do,” he repeated.

  Biting his dagger between his teeth, he climbed out. The bowsprit was slick, but MacNab clung to it with hands and feet and knees, edging closer to where Patch dangled. He’d have only seconds to save him before they were hit by another wave.

  He kept his dagger clamped hard between his teeth. It would be the thing that’d save his ship; he couldn’t lose it. The blade dug into the corners of his mouth. The feel of sharp steel on his skin gave him focus.

  They’d lost their prize money when they’d lost the schooner. But he could save the men their lives.

  MacNab wrapped his legs tightly around the bowsprit, as though clinging to a tree trunk. He snatched the line from its pendulum swing and wrapped it about his arm and fist. It bore Patch’s weight, and it cut into the muscle of MacNab’s forearm.

  He heaved the line in, and his first mate jostled up, closer to the bowsprit. He heaved again, straining with the weight. Each yard of rope MacNab gained, he wound around his arm, until finally Patch was close enough to curl up and grab hold of the bowsprit.

  Patch met his eyes, and MacNab nodded to the ship, gesturing for him to get back on board. If anything happened to MacNab, he knew his first mate would be the Charon’s only chance at survival.

  He looked away the moment his first mate reached the rail. Angry welts crisscrossed his arm and fist, rope burns, rope slashes. But MacNab didn’t feel them.

  He knew only the dagger in his teeth and the sail dangling dangerously below. He set to work, clinging with legs and feet, slicing the lines free.

  There was a sharp crack, and for a moment, MacNab thought a thunderstorm was to be their next trial. But then he felt the next crack in his hands. He felt the slow creaking of wood as the bowsprit began to fracture beneath him.

  “MacNab!” Patch shouted.

  He looked up. The men gestured madly to him, waving him back on board.

  “We’ll cut the lines from the deck,” another shouted.

  Sailors were already frantically cutting away at the lines, from the deck, from the mast, trying to free the jib.

  But MacNab knew it wouldn’t be enough, the lines were too snarled beneath him.

  In his gut, he felt the slow surging of the water, as though the sea herself were drawing in a great breath. Another wave was coming. It would catch the jib, drown them all. His men would never get the lines cut in time. He needed to lean down, severing below the tangled mass.

  The bowsprit creaked again, and he saw the fissure crackling up the thin stretch of it. Still, he clung with his legs, hugging the wood. His plaid flapped in the wind, the wet wool slapping hard against his thighs.

  He reached below the snarl and sliced line after line, until only one was left. He sensed the wave surging. Felt the pull of the water on the jib. He cut the final line free. There was one last deafening crack.

  The Charon heaved back, freed of her weight. The bowsprit snapped. The wave swallowed the jib, the bowsprit, and MacNab.

  Thirteen

  MacNab’s body spun, and he felt it as a slow flight through space.

  I am lost. The thought crept to him, quiet, unassuming.

  He closed his eyes, and the whole of his life came to him, clear, bright, and heartrending.

  Gordie, dear Gordie. Where was his friend now? His aunt, Morna. Did she still live?

  And Cassie. At the end, there was only Cassie.

  The others were mere flickers, stars in the night sky. But Cassie was his sun. Brightness and warmth. He hadn’t been alive, not truly, since she’d died.

  Snippets flashed to him. Her shining, yellow hair. Their first kiss. Her saucy smiles. A promise made beneath the stones.

  He spun, and it was as though the sea swirled up to meet him. But it was aggravatingly slow, this death. Still he spun, and still the memories came.

  Finally, blessedly, he struck with a hard smack. The waves swallowed him. Water forced its way into his sinuses, down his throat. It was sharp like glass, invading his body.

  But the pain was nothing to these final memories that impaled him. He saw her, over and over, and her sweet voice filled his head. His only, his lovely Cassie.

  His body spun in the water. He felt a tug at his core. The vortex seized him. Swilkie, the swallower. He spun faster.

  Finally.

  Rest.

  And then he spun down into blackness.

  “Iain,” someone shouted. “Iain!” It was Gordie’s voice.

  Pain swept him. Would he never be free of the memories? Did they follow him here, down to hell?

  “Shake him,” a voice like his aunt’s said.

  Something yanked at his hair. Iain opened his eyes. His aunt’s daughter, the little blonde baby Jan, pulling on his hair with chubby, sandy fingers.

  He blinked, looked around, dazed. What of the Charon? Had he shipwrecked, landed back on Lewis somehow?

  His eyes went back to Jan. “But you . . .” he stammered. Jan should be over twenty and a woman grown by now, yet here she sat, tugging his hair, a smear of sand clinging to her drooly chin.

  Iain dropped his head onto the beach. Hell. He’d landed himself in hell, where he’d be forced to live and relive his painful memories throughout eternity.

  “He opened his eyes,” Morna said. “Iain, lad, are you alright?”

  He lifted his head again. Looked down to his hands in the surf. They were the hands of a young man.

  There was mumbling at his back, but he ignored it. He pushed himself up to sitting and flexed his hands before him, marveling. His black scars, gone. His fingers traced his face. It was smooth.

  Was it a dream? Was he in hell? He surely hadn’t earned heaven.

  “He’s not in his right mind,” Niall said.

  “Ach, our Iain is harder to kill than that, aye?” Gordie laughed, and Iain’s eyes went to him.

  Gordie was cuffing his brother on the shoulder. Neither of them was a day older than when Iain had fled, so long ago.

  “Where am I?” he asked, bewildered.

  “The boat, lad. We’ve sunk.”

  “Are you certain he’s alright?” Morna leaned down, plucking Jan from the sand.

  “We were on our fishing day, remember?” Niall said.

  “Thank God he’s alright,” his aunt muttered. “And thank the heavens I saw the wave as you lads went out. I’ve never seen the like. ’Twas like the sea witch herself come to sweep you away.”

  Their fishing day. His eyes scanned Gordie and Niall, studied their clothing, desperate to remember. Was this that day? The day he’d returned to find Cassie promised to another?

  How could it be? Was he dead? Was this real?

  A thousand thoughts skittered through his mind. Of churning seas, whirlpools, and sea witches, of the laird he’d killed. The image of Cassie’s dress stained scarlet with her blood. And clear like the sun through parting clouds came the memory of a promise made beneath the Callanish Stones.

  “We didn’t go fishing?” Iain asked, wonderment in his voice.

  “No, lad.” Gordie and his brother exchanged worried looks. “We left not an hour past.”

  This was that day. The day they’d fished. The day he’d returned to find Cassie promised to Lord Morrison.

  Hope blazed to life in his chest. Perhaps it was a dream, perhaps not. All he knew was that, if less than an hour had passed since they’d left on their fishing boat, there was a chance he could find Cassie, get her. Take her before Morrison had a chance to.

  Iain jumped to his feet and ran.

  Fourteen

 
Rocks bit at his feet, the cold air scored his throat, and his plaid was heavy and wet, slapping against his pumping legs.

  Iain ignored it all, even ignored the feel of his body, suddenly young and taut and fast.

  His only focus was Cassie.

  He didn’t know what was happening to him. He wondered if his soul weren’t wandering in some netherworld, while his body lay drowned on the bottom of the sea.

  But he pushed that thought away. He was here now, in his young man’s body. And he would do what he should’ve done when he was young in truth.

  He ran along the coastline, cresting hills, jumping rocks, to get to MacLeod’s tower. It emerged on the horizon, sitting high on its cliff-top perch, a rocky outcropping jutting into the sea.

  The castle loomed grim and gray, but what had once evoked fear now simply spurred him on. He should’ve faced the laird in his own domain long ago.

  He loped around the back to the kale garden. His heart clenched, anguished at the memories. Cassie’d had a whole world apart from him, one in which she’d sneak through this very garden, doing things like listening in on maids and trapping rabbits. Sneaking out, coming to him.

  One of the cooks gave him a startled look, and Iain hushed her. But it reminded him of where he was. He might be in a dream, he might be in heaven or hell. Either way, he imagined stealth would serve him best, until he could puzzle it out.

  He ducked into the kitchen and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. His heart pounded in his chest as he caught his breath. He’d run hard. He looked down in amazement at his body. Young again. Dream or no, it felt good to be young again.

  He heard a shout. A man’s voice loud in argument. Iain crept onto the stairs.

  Muted voices came from above. The dining hall? He tip-toed up, running his hand along the cold, dank stone of the spiral staircase as he went.

  “He stole.” It was the laird’s voice, speaking with disdain.

  “No, father,” a woman entreated. Iain’s heart flipped in his chest. Cassie? Could it truly be her? It took all his will not to run up the stairs to her. “Iain didn’t steal. It was I—”