by Lynsay Sands
It had taken seemingly forever for the captain and the first mate to get Emily to the mast. The wind had kept grabbing at the long skirts of her gown and trying to whisk her away. By the time they had lashed her to it and gone back to collect her uncle, the wind had been a living thing, grasping and greedy. Worse yet, on their return the ship had been cresting one of the enormous waves that had been assaulting them for hours. The men had not been able to reach the mast before they were picked up by a rogue wave that crashed over the ship. Her uncle and the first mate had been swept overboard like so much flotsam. The captain had been smashed into the side of the ship with a violence that had left him injured, but alive and still onboard. Emily had known at that point that— barring a miracle—they were all lost. Her opinion had not changed in the eternity that had passed since then as she had first watched the seamen struggle to fight the storm, then watched them being overwhelmed by it until it had grown too dark to see at all.
The time since then had been interminable, filled with the crash of waves, the sting of rain, and the never-ending, howling wind. At first, there had also been the occasional screams of sailors being washed overboard, but Emily had not heard any for the last little while. She was beginning to think that she was the only soul left alive onboard, and didn’t know how long that would last. While the ship was still afloat, she was in dire danger of drowning where she slumped against the ropes binding her.
A sudden low crack and groan pierced the howling in Emily’s ears. It was accompanied by a shudder that ran through the boards under her feet and the mast at her back. Emily lifted her head and tried to penetrate the black, her heart thundering somewhere in the vicinity of her throat as she struggled to understand what this meant. It sounded as if the ship had hit something. This couldn’t be good.
Another wave battered her body and Emily moaned as her head cracked violently against the wooden mast. For a moment, the gloom was illuminated by stars dancing behind her eyelids and she was wretched with pain. It was then that the wind and water were abruptly cut off. She could still hear the wind, but it no longer beat at her as it had. Emily didn’t open her eyes until a hard form pressed itself against her.
Blinking her eyes open then, she was surprised to find that there was some light where until now there had been only darkness. The storm was apparently easing and some small moonlight was struggling through the clouds, enough that she could make out the ruffled front of a white shirt before her nose. Then that cloth and the body beneath it were pressed against her face and she felt arms close around her. Before she could quite understand what was happening, the ropes that had held her in place for so long slipped away. Stiff and weak from hours spent in the punishing wind, Emily felt herself crumpling downward, then was caught under the arms and lifted up.
“Hold on to me.” The words came to her clearly, though she almost thought she had imagined them, for surely even spoken into her ears she should not have heard them so clearly in this wind? Nevertheless, Emily did her best to obey the instruction, but her limp arms were incapable of following direction. She lifted helpless, apologetic eyes to the face looming above hers and was briefly caught in its dark beauty. Sad, gray eyes that seemed to reflect the moonlight peered out at her from a pale, chiseled face that was both handsome and somehow tragic. Emily knew instinctively that this man had suffered untold sorrow.
Her thoughts died an abrupt death as another fierce wave crashed over the boat, slamming both her and her would-be rescuer back against the mast. Her head cracked against the wood once more, this time a violent slam that made the night explode in a blinding light that faded as quickly as it had appeared, taking consciousness with it.
Emily blinked her eyes open and stared into obscurity. For a moment, she feared she was still on the ship and that the storm had merely passed, but then she realized this couldn’t be. She was dry, lying down on a relatively soft surface, and covered by what felt to be a mountain of blankets. She was saved! That glad thought was followed by the question of how? and a brief picture of a pale, handsome face beneath wind-tossed hair flashed in her mind.
Emily sat up abruptly and winced at the tenderness in her stomach, a reminder of her ordeal through the storm. She suspected she’d be tender for some time to come.
“And should be grateful to have escaped so lightly,” she reprimanded herself, then gave a start at the rusty sound of her own voice. Her throat was raw and sore, though whether from the sea-water she had swallowed or from her own shouts she just didn’t know. Whatever the case, she determined to be grateful for this little reminder of her experience as well. No doubt, the men who had been washed overboard would have welcomed the opportunity to complain of so little.
Emily peered around the dim room as she shifted to the edge of the bed. There was little enough to see: unidentifiable shapes barely visible through the gloom. It appeared to be night still, or again. She wasn’t at all sure how long she’d suffered the brutal storm. For that matter, Emily had no idea how long she may have slept afterward.
Her gaze settled on a large black rectangle that might be a door, and she slid off the bed to move cautiously toward it, inching forward with care lest there be something in her path. But when Emily reached what she’d hoped was a door and stretched out her hand, her fingers encountered only heavy cloth. Drapes.
Gripping the material with both hands, she yanked them open. Midday sunlight exploded into the room, searing her eyes and sending her staggering back. Blinking rapidly, Emily turned away from the blinding light and got her first glimpse of the room she occupied. The sunlight lit it admirably. Too well. She almost wanted to slam the curtains closed again. The room she occupied was a gloomy prospect. No amount of sunlight could brighten the decor of gray and blood red with its coating of dust and detritus.
Grimacing, she rubbed her arms and shifted to place one foot on top of the other on the cold stone floor, then glanced at the loose cloth covering her arms. Her dress was gone. She wore a long, flowing white nightgown in its place. Embarrassment tried to claim her at the thought of someone—the sad-eyed man?—undressing and dressing her, but she shrugged it away. Surely it had been a maid and not her rescuer who had changed her? Emily hoped so, but another glance at the room was hardly reassuring. It did not reflect the efforts of a maid.
Her ruminations on the matter were interrupted when a click drew her gaze to the door she had been seeking. The large wooden panel swung inward and a head sporting gray hair in a neat bun poked in, swiveling until two bright eyes found her.
“Oh! Yer up.”
“Yes. I—” Emily paused. The head had slipped back out of sight through the door. In the next moment, the wooden panel burst wide open and the head reappeared, this time atop the rather large, comforting body of an older woman carrying a tray.
“Well! I was beginning to think ye’d be sleeping the day away.” The woman sailed cheerfully across the room to set the tray on a small table next to Emily. “Not that I’d be blaming ye if ye did. But I’ve been ever so curious since the master brought ye home.” She fussed over the tray briefly, then pulled out a chair and smiled at Emily. “Here ye are, then. I’ve brought you some good, nourishing food to restore ye after yer trials. Have a seat, lass, and—och!”
Emily had moved automatically toward the chair, but paused abruptly at that alarmed sound. The woman sounded like a chicken about to lay an egg and looked about as ruffled, her matronly body bristling and jerking back as if to flap wings that didn’t exist.
“Ye can’t be standin‘ about barefoot on the castle’s cold floors, lass. Ye’ll be catching yer death, ye will. And ye’ve naught but the lady’s gown on.” Pausing, she slammed her palm into her forehead. “Oh, saints alive! I didn’t think to leave ye any slippers or a robe. I’ll fetch ye one right quick, ne’er fear. Ye just get off the stone floor and settle yerself at the table. I’ll return directly.”
The woman fled as quickly as she’d entered, leaving Emily feeling quite lost. She hadn’t had the
opportunity to ask a single question, and there were quite a few she would have liked answers to. After a moment, the scent wafting off the food drew her to the table. Emily’s stomach growled as she surveyed the offering. There was quite an assortment; bread so fresh it was still warm, a steaming bowl of oatmeal, eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, cheese, and pastries that looked divine.
Overcome with hunger, Emily briefly forgot herself and fell on the food like a ravenous wolf. She had made great headway into the meal when a loud dragging sound, as if some huge piece of furniture were being tugged across a floor, reached her ears and made her pause and glance to the open door where the sound was emanating from. When her benefactor’s ample behind came into view, Emily stood and moved curiously to the door. Huffing and puffing and bent almost double, the older woman dragged what turned out to be a chest to the doorway.
“Oh! Let me help.” Emily rushed forward, concerned by the older woman’s flushed face.
The woman waved her away. “Ye’ll just be getting in the way. Back to the table, lass. I’ve got this.”
Ignoring that order, Emily took up position on the far end of the chest to help maneuver it the rest of the way into the room and to the foot of the bed. She wasn’t surprised to find the older woman out of breath when they both straightened, but the fact that she was as well was a tad alarming. Emily was usually much more stalwart than this and could only think that the storm had really taken her strength out of her.
“There now.” The woman popped open the lid of the chest and began to rifle through the neatly folded clothes inside. “These were the master’s mother’s things. Or sister’s. I think,” she added with a small frown as she lifted out an old-fashioned gown and took in its almost medieval look. “Well, they were some relative’s.”
An ancient relative, Emily thought with amusement as she peered over the gown the woman was refolding and returning to the chest.
“Anyway, this is where he had me get the nightgown ye’re wearing, and he said ye could make use of whatever ye needed.” She grunted with satisfaction as she came up with a slipper, handed it over, then bent to hunt its partner.
Emily examined the soft cloth, then slipped the shoe onto one foot, happy to find it fit snugly and was comfortable. She donned the other slipper when it was found, then a robe as well.
“There we be.” Beaming with satisfaction, the older woman steered her back toward the table. Her eyebrows rose in surprise when she saw the dent Emily had already put in the provided fare. ‘Well now, I like a lass with a healthy appetite.“
Emily flushed at that approving comment. She had gobbled down a good portion of the food in the short time the woman had been gone. She’d felt near to starving the moment she’d spotted the food, which reminded her of her first question. While they’d breakfasted before setting out for the docks, the storm had hit before they could manage lunch aboard ship. Emily had no idea how long it had been since she’d eaten. It felt like days. “How long have I slept?”
“Well, now.” Her hostess settled comfortably in a chair across from her and paused to reach for one of the pastries before answering her question. “It was near dawn yesterday when ye were brought here. A drowned rat ye were, I can tell ye. Barely alive, I think. I changed yer clothes and settled ye in bed and figured ye’d sleep the day away, but ye slept through the night too. I started to worry when ye didn’t wake up first thing this morning. So I decided to fix ye a tray and see did the food not draw ye back to wakefulness.”
“Dawn,” Emily murmured thoughtfully. “The storm started just before midday. That means I was strapped to that mast for—”
The woman nodded solemnly at Emily’s dismay. “It took a lot out of ye. Ye needed yer rest. Eat up,” she added. “It’s rare enough I get the chance to cook fer someone and ye could use fattening up.”
“You’re the cook here, then?” Emily asked.
The woman blinked, then again slapped a hand to her forehead. “Och! I’ve not even introduced myself, have I? I’m Mrs. MacBain, dear. Cook, housekeeper, and ...” She shrugged, then glanced around the room. Embarrassment immediately covered her face as she took in its state.
“It must be difficult to keep so large a home clean if you’re on your own,” Emily said sympathetically, and the woman sighed.
“Aye. I don’t generally bother with any but the main floor. Most of the rest of the castle is kept closed. We don’t usually have guests.” She turned her gaze back to Emily and took another pastry before moving the plate a little closer to her in silent invitation. “And now that ye know my name, who would ye be?”
“Emily.” She took one of the offered pastries. Her mouth watered as she broke the soft bun and the fresh-baked, yeasty scent wafted to her nose. “Emily Wentworth Collins.”
“Emily Wentworth Collins, is it?” Mrs. MacBain smiled as
Emily bit into the pastry with a moan of pure pleasure, then added, “That’s an important-sounding name. For an important lady?”
“Nay. I have no title, I’m afraid,” Emily admitted, then cleared her throat and said, “My memory is rather vague, but I am sure I recall a man untying me from the mast.”
“Aye.” The woman heaved out a breath that sent little bits of powdery sugar flying. “The MacKay.”
“The MacKay?” Emily echoed with interest. “Is he a handsome man? Pale? With sad eyes?”
“Aye. Keeran MacKay’s a handsome devil and that’s no lie. ‘Tis a shame about him, really.”
“A shame?” Emily queried softly.
“Hmm.” The housekeeper’s wrinkled face went solemn, then she seemed to shake off the mood and she turned a thoughtful gaze Emily’s way. “I noticed ye wear no rings. Ye aren’t married, are ye, dear?”
“No,” Emily admitted, bewildered by the seeming change in subject. Being a naturally honest girl, she felt compelled to add, “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Mrs. MacBain asked, a question on her face.
“I was to marry an earl today,” Emily explained, then corrected, “Well, I guess it would have been yesterday we were to wed. ‘Tis why my uncle and I were traveling north. We were to arrive at the ancestral estate in the afternoon, spend the night, then the wedding was to take place the next day. I suppose I slept through the portion of time during which I was supposed to be married.”
“Marrying an earl? And you not even a lady?”
Emily bit back a smile at Mrs. MacBain’s shock over this idea, though she wasn’t surprised by it. There was a time when such a thing would have been unheard of. However, times were changing, and commoners were no longer peons bound to their lords, but were free to perform commerce and amass great wealth. And with that change, impoverished but titled lords had begun to marry untitled but wealthy commoners to secure their place in society. Mrs. MacBain was obviously of an old-fashioned mind and didn’t approve of such arrangements.
“Well, while not titled, I have had all the proper schooling. And
I am told I’m quite wealthy. Then too, the earl wanted a healthy, young bride to beget an heir, and my uncle wanted the title and connections the earl holds for business purposes.“ She frowned now and glanced up at the kind woman. ”Uncle John was washed overboard at the start of the storm. I don’t suppose—?“ She stopped her question when Mrs. MacBain sadly shook her head.
“The master said ye were the last soul left alive, dear. I am sorry.”
Emily nodded. She felt as much grief at the loss of the captain and sailors who had been strangers to her until the morning they had boarded the ship as she did at the loss of her uncle. In truth, he had been as much of a stranger to her as those other lost souls. She sighed unhappily at that knowledge.
“Ye’ve said yer uncle and this earl wanted the wedding. What did ye want?” Mrs. MacBain asked, watching her closely.
“Me?” Emily blinked at the very idea. What she wanted didn’t really come into it, and she had never been foolish enough to think it did. The woman’s wants were never important. Her duty was to
do as she was bid with as much cheer and obedience as could be mustered. Men made the decisions in this world. She had been trained in that from birth. It was the way of things.
“Aye, ye,” Mrs. MacBain said, drawing her thoughts again. “Did ye wish to marry the earl?”
Emily shuddered at the very thought of the ancient, leering earl of Sinclair. The one time they had met, he had eyed her hungrily and announced to one and all that she would bear him “fine fruit.” Hardly an impressive first meeting. “No. But my uncle wished it.”
“I see. Well,” Mrs. MacBain said reluctantly. “I suppose we should send a message to the earl.”
“No!” Emily herself was startled by the shout that ripped from her throat. Forcing herself to take a calming breath, she tried for reason. She had been numb with a sort of horror ever since learning she was to marry the aged and repulsive earl of Sinclair, but had known there was no way to avoid it. As her guardian, her uncle had every right to arrange her life as he saw fit.
Now, however, he was dead. Did she still have to carry out his wishes and place herself in the earl’s hands? In effect, handing over the reins of her life to that—from all accounts—lascivious man? Or was her life now, finally, her own? It seemed to be her own, as far as she could gather. No doubt a barrister would be placed in charge of her finances until she reached the age of twenty-five—as stated in her father’s will—but the barrister could not order her to marry anyone. No one could now. She was free. The thought was a new and precious one.
Free. That horrid, torturous storm had freed her. But freed her to do what? She wasn’t sure what she could or wanted to do, and would appreciate the chance to figure it out without the earl haranguing her or the family lawyers hovering about her with disapproval. And this was probably her only opportunity to ponder what she wished to do, she realized. At least it was as long as no notice was sent informing everybody that she still lived.