by Lily Baldwin
“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 quic
kly 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.”
She did not burst into sobs as he had expected. Instead her brows drew together, and she looked confused. “But I set out alone. There was no one on board my wee skiff but me.”
His eyes widened with surprise. “You were sailing the open waters alone…in a skiff?”
She shook her head. “Nay—I mean aye, I was alone, but nay, the storm must have swept me out to sea.”
He canted his head as he studied her. Now that her hair was dry, the color was as red as the feathers of the Scottish Crossbill. Her sunburn had already begun to fade. He suspected her skin would clear to creamy white with a spattering of freckles across her nose. The color of her eyes easily bested the brilliance of the summer sky. He could look at her for hours. There was something almost otherworldly about her beauty, but what manner of woman set out in a boat on her own?
He considered the rumors being tossed about by his men: she was a silky or a siren who would bring them nothing but disaster. Cook asked the captain to throw her back to the sea, fretting she belonged to one of the Blue Men who would crash their ship into rocks if they kept her. He had ordered the men to desist their superstitious gossip, arguing she was a flesh and blood woman. When he asked if they wanted her blood on their hands, they all desisted straightaway.
Despite her ethereal beauty, her humanity was not in question in his mind. It was apparent in the fear he glimpsed in her eyes. He reached out and gently squeezed one of her hands. “You are safe now.” He still did not know her name, but he didn’t want to rush her.
She muttered something, her eyes dropping to her lap.
“Pardon?” he asked.
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze once more. “My name is Rose,” she said as if reading his thoughts. She took her hand out from under his and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. Straightening her back and lifting her chin, she said her name again, her voice imbued with strength. “Thank ye for rescuing me, Captain Thatcher. When can I expect to be home?”
He smiled, pleased by her frankness and the change in her demeanor. “I’m glad you asked that, because we’ve all been wondering where exactly you came from.”
“I hail from,” she started to say, but then she paused. Her eyes darted to her hands and then to a place on the wall above his head. “Jura. I hail from the Isle of Jura.”
“Are you certain?” he asked. “You seemed to hesitate.”
She nodded. “My mind is still muddled, but I assure ye, Jura is my home. When did ye say ye can take me?”
“Rose,” he began cautiously not knowing how she would respond to news that her return would not be imminent. “I will gladly bring you home, but it will not be possible for some weeks.”
“Weeks?” she said, sitting up straight, her eyes wide with alarm. “But why so long? Can ye not change course?”
“It isn’t as easy as that. Judging by your location and your condition when we spotted you, you must have drifted for at least two days. Frankly, you’re lucky to be alive.”
Her eyes grew wider still. “I can’t believe I’ve been gone for two days.”
“Longer than that, my dear. You’ve been battling a mighty fever for the last three days. Since you came aboard, we have distanced ourselves from the islands. We’re currently anchored just off Cardiff.”
“Where’s that?”
“Wales.”
“Wales!”
“Yes, and in two days’ time, we set our course for France.”
“France!”
He chuckled. “Yes, France. I’m sorry to alarm you, but I do have a schedule to keep.”
“Forgive me, Captain. Ye can imagine my surprise.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Rose. We’ve made a habit of surprising one another. Imagine my surprise, shock actually, when my lookout told me he saw a woman drifting on the meager remnants of a boat.”
Just then a soft rapping on the door intruded upon their conversation.
“Enter,” Tristan said.
Robert appeared at the door. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. “She’s awake!”
Tristan turned back to Rose. “This is Robert Appleby, the surgeon who has tended you these last days.”
Robert squeezed just past the entryway. Then he dipped his head in greeting. “You have brought excitement to what has become a very routine trade route. Most of the crew is still convinced you’re a siren or a silky.” The surgeon paused as his laughter trailed off. “You aren’t actually a siren or a silky, are you?”
She smiled slightly. “I assure ye I’m an ordinary woman.”
Tristan held her gaze for several moments, taking in her strength and courage. “I believe you are a woman, but ordinary? That I strongly doubt. Ordinary women are not found adrift on the sea with no land in sight.”
A sadness flashed in her eyes. “My skiff is destroyed then.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She sighed. “And after Ian worked so hard.”
“Your husband, no doubt, will think nothing about the skiff. He will be too overjoyed to see you in one piece.”
“I’m not married.”
“No?” he said not bothering to hide his surprise. She must have been near thirty in age. It was unthinkable that a woman as beautiful and courageous as she could be unmarried, but then that would explain why she would have the freedom to set out alone in the first place.
“Who is Ian?” he asked.
“My youngest brother. He made me a fine, wee ship.”
“You have brothers then?”
“Aye, a crew of them—five in total.”
“How did they allow you to venture out on the sea alone?”
Her eyes flashed bright with indignation, and the blanket fell away from her shoulders as she clenched her fists at her waist. “I am a woman with one and thirty years. I do not require the permission of my wee brothers in any matter.”
Robert chuckled. “Mind yourself, Captain. She’s got a temper to match her hair.” The old man’s voice grew softer as he continued, “just like my beloved Clara.”
Tristan glanced
over his shoulder and saw tears glistening in Robert’s faded blue eyes. “My wife,” Robert said in explanation. “You are very like her in appearance. I would guess in other ways, too. She passed away ten years ago now, may God rest her soul. But she had gumption, fueled by her fiery hair. I loved her spirit,” he said, his voice cracking. “I will take my leave before I start blubbering.” He pointed to the bundle on her bed. “There is a clean tunic and a pair of hose from Simon, the cabin boy. They will have to do until some proper clothes are made for you. If you are feeling strong enough, you may take a turn on deck. But mind, you don’t overdo it.” He stepped out into the hall, then glanced back. “You really do remind me of my Clara.” In a muffle of tears, he was gone.
A sad smile curved Tristan’s lips as he turned back to Rose. “He loved his wife very much.”
“There is no finer or greater magic than true love,” she said softly.
She was right, or at least Tristan assumed she was right. His parents had known true love. Obviously, Robert had, as well. Tristan had never been on dry land long enough to fall in love. Still, talk of true love and magic only fueled his desire not to marry Lady Roxwell.
“If yer brow furrows anymore, ye’ll look like ye have a mustache.”
“Pardon?” he said, meeting her gaze.
She laughed. The sound was light and musical and flooded his heart with warmth. “Forgive me. ‘Tis what I’ve always said to my brothers when their worries make them too serious.”
He smiled. “Thank you. I needed the reminder.” Then he stood. “Although it’s impossible to tell in this small, dreary room, it is a fine day. The sun is shining. The waters are calm. If you have the strength and inclination, it would be my pleasure to escort you aloft. We can take a turn about the deck.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m curious about the ship, but I’m, admittedly, exhausted. Still, fresh air will no doubt do me good.” She nodded suddenly. “Perhaps just a quick turn then.”