by Lily Baldwin
His pulled her close. “I’m so sorry. It is too painful. I never should have asked.”
She shook her head. “Nay,” she said through her tears. “Thank ye for asking. No one ever asks me about my girls. They’re too afraid to upset me or worried it will hurt too much. But I want to talk about them. I want to remember.” Her tears fell freely. She looked at him and did not try to hide or fight her emotion.
“Tell me more,” he said softly.
She smiled and sobbed all at once. “Ina was the one most like Henry.” She began, her voice trembling. “My husband was a good man. I loved him dearly.”
“Was he a fisherman?”
Rose shook her head. “Nay, he was a carpenter. He didn’t like the sea very much, and neither did Ina. Like Henry, she preferred the warmth of home. She had his rich, brown hair, even temperament, and kind heart. She loved to sing and would fill the air with song from morning to night.” She took up the hem of her tunic and wiped her eyes. When she spoke again her voice was stronger, clearer. “Now, Nora was my wee imp,” she said, chuckling. “A miniature version of me, fiery red hair and all. What a wild wee lass she was, always running and climbing. We could scarce keep her from scaling the rocks along the shore. Henry and I decided the only way to keep her safe was to teach her to swim.”
Her hands folded over her heart, and she stared off into space, seeing what Tristan could not. Her body gently swayed side to side. “And then there was Florrie. She was my baby,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just two years old. She was her da’s best girl and always wanted to follow Henry off to work every morning.”
Rose’s shoulders sagged a little, and she blew out a long, slow breath.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “They sound like remarkable girls.”
Laying her head on his chest, she nodded. “They are,” she whispered. Then she looked up at him. “I’m tired now, Tristan. I ken ‘tis early but I would like to go to sleep.”
He nodded and stood up and helped her off the bed to pull the covers back. “You take the bed,” he said. “There’s plenty of room here for me to sleep on the floor.”
She seized his hand. “Nay,” she said, a flash of panic in her eyes. “I want ye to lie with me. I want ye to hold me.” Once more her eyes flooded with tears.
He pulled her close. “I’m here,” he crooned softly in her ear. Then he scooped her into his arms and laid her on the bed. He curled up behind her and held her tight. He could feel her fatigue. “Rest now, Rose. I’ve got you. You just rest.”
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Rose awoke, feeling more rested than she had in years. She stretched, and reached out her hand feeling for Tristan beside her, but he wasn’t there. She sat up and scanned the cottage, but he was nowhere to be found. She scooted to the edge of the bed and wiped the sleep from her eyes. Then she stood and crossed to the door. Opening it wide, she spied Tristan walking up the path.
“I was just coming to wake you,” he said, smiling.
She stepped out onto the flat cool white stones. “What is it?”
“I’ve never seen such a beautiful sunrise,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her toward the shore.
She gasped as they crested the sandy slope. Deep red spread out across the sky and the water. And now that the fog had cleared, she could see the white cliffs of Dover across the channel, but the rising sun had also painted the alabaster bluffs red. The sight touched her soul-deep. She stared in awe. “Tristan,” she gasped.
The waves rolled high as if spurred on by the magnificent sight.
“Have ye ever seen anything so beautiful?” she said, raising her hands up to the red sky.
“Never,” he swore.
His ardent tone drew her gaze, and they locked eyes. He no longer watched the writhing sea or the expanse of red sky. He had eyes only for her, and they bore through her, insistent, searching, and hungry. A rush of desire filled her. She stepped closer to him and splayed her hands wide on his chest.
He seized her and thrust her close. The storm in his eyes mirrored the crash of the waves against the rock. His eyes were intense, piercing deep beyond the layers of her being to the deepest part of her—her raw longing, her restless heart, her hunger for more. Her fingers bit into his biceps. Her heart raced, pounding in her chest, surely harder than the wind was strong. His body was stiff with tension. The pulse at his neck throbbed. He was like a caged animal, and with a fitting growl he thrust her away from him.
“I am sorry,” he bit out. She could feel the tension pulse off him in powerful waves. “This was not part of our bargain. I am sorry to overstep my bounds.” He turned on his heel and thundered toward the cottage. She watched him, her body frozen, wanting, needing. He disappeared over the slope. His sudden absence, the loss of his arms around her, spurred her feet forward. She raced through the sand, then onto the grassy slope. The tough grass bit at her bare feet, but she didn’t care. Her only thought was of her one desire, Tristan.
Running down the stone pathway to the cottage, she threw open the door. He stood at the table, his hands splayed wide on the surface. The muscles of his back and shoulders visibly tensed beneath his tunic. He turned and faced her, his eyes lit with fire that burned as his touchless caress penetrated the barriers of flesh to her beating heart.
He stormed toward her and grabbed her, crushing her against his taut body. His lips seized hers. She groaned into his mouth, her tongue meeting his, stroking, tasting. Her body shuddered and ached and craved so much more than his kiss alone. His fingers dug into her hair while she pulled at his tunic. She wanted to touch his skin, to run her hands along his bare, sinewy shoulders. His lips tore away from hers and burned a fiery path down her throat. She arched her back, aching for his hands to touch all of her.
But they were not truly husband and wife.
“Nay, we cannot,” she cried.
He thrust her away. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his breaths coming in short heaves. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
She wanted to weep for the loss of his touch. She gripped her head with her hands. “I want you,” she groaned, the words spoken as if of their own accord. Her hand flew to her mouth. He started toward her again, his eyes narrow and hungry, but she scurried back. “You stay there,” she ordered. Then she backed up against the opposite wall. “And I will stay right here.”
He nodded, his chest heaving. “Philip should be here at any moment.”
Several minutes passed. Neither of them had moved, when a knock sounded at the door.
“Thank God,” Rose blurted the instant before Philip stepped into the cottage.
“Good morrow,” he said, smiling, but then he looked at Tristan on one side of the room and Rose pressed against the wall on the other side. She quickly tried to smooth her hair and straighten her tunic, but Philip’s slight smile told her she was too late. He started to back out the door. “The Messenger is anchored just offshore,” he said quickly before shutting the door behind him.
Tristan took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “It is time to go.”
Rose stood straighter, and once more smoothed the wrinkles from her tunic. “Aye,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “That would appear to be the case.”
Tristan reached out his hand. “I will send one of the men back to gather our few affects. Shall I escort you to our dinghy,” he said with forced brightness.
She dipped in a stiff curtsy. “That would be lovely, thank ye.”
They left the cottage together and started down the field. “The sky has brightened,” she said.
“It has, indeed, although I do not like the looks of those clouds gathering in the east.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “They do look rather ominous.”
“Powerful,” he agreed, his hold on her hand tightening.
Her heart started to race again. “Unbridled even.”
He dropped her hand and cleared his throat, taking a
few steps away from her. “Perhaps you should just go on ahead and let one of the crew help you into the boat.”
She nodded and hurried forward, hoping to outrun her own desire.
Chapter Nineteen
Rose knelt on the stern castle, helping Davy scrub the floor while Tristan and Philip stood on the opposite side of the ship. She and Tristan had scarce said two words to each other since they had boarded the Messenger.
She glanced over at him, and her skin grew warm just thinking about their kiss that morning.
Kiss?
It had been no mere kiss.
She had nearly torn the tunic off his shoulders.
She stole another glance his way just as he looked in her direction. They locked eyes. Even across the ship, she could see the desire glint in his gaze. Her cheeks burned. Quickly, she turned away and frantically scrubbed at the already clean wood.
Davy’s brows drew together. “Are you all right, Rose?”
“Right as rain,” she smiled, her hands moving faster and faster.
“Mayhap, you would like to take a rest?” he suggested.
She shook her head. “The last thing I need is rest. I would like to keep busy. Idle hands and all that. So, Davy, tell me, do ye have a sweetheart who is watching the horizon for yer return?”
Davy blushed, which she appreciated. At least she wasn’t the only one on the Messenger with pink cheeks.
His young face took on a wistful expression. “Her name is Cora. She’s my best friend’s younger sister. I’m going to marry her as soon as I can afford to…” His words trailed off as he slowly stood.
“What is it?” Rose said, wanting to hear more about Cora. “What’s wrong.” Her gaze followed the direction of Davy’s. Tristan darted up the rigging and balanced on the yard, gripping the top of the mast. He closed his eyes and lifted his face in the breeze. Below him, the crew ceased their work. Lines fell slack. Men froze in whatever position they were in when they noticed their captain on the move. Tension filled the air. Then suddenly, Tristan shifted his gaze to the men below. “Batten the hatches,” he shouted. “Secure the rigging.”
Rose turned to Davy. “What’s happening?”
Davy’s jaw was set. “Storm’s coming,” he said, before he seized the bucket and rags.
She turned around and around, taking in the patchy blue sky. “But the sky is clear enough.”
“It won’t be for long,” Davy said, looking her hard in the eye. He suddenly seemed years older. “Captain’s never wrong.”
Rose’s eyes widened as she turned and gazed out over the main deck at the frenzy of activity that had ensued. The crew hastened to carry out Tristan’s orders. With line in hand, Piper swung open the large cargo door cut into the floor of the main deck and jumped down into the hold. Then his head appeared again as he quickly pulled the door shut. She guessed he was using the line to secure the hatch. A short while later, he reappeared on deck, using the hatch that led to the sleeping cabins and galley.
Rose pressed her lips together in a firm line and tightened her fists as she marched down the stairs to join the men. The captain of the Messenger had given a command. Scanning the deck, she seized hold of extra line and began coiling the loose end. During a storm, unsecured line could lash out like a whip and entangle a crew member or flay their skin. Davy rushed past her, his arms full of the crew members’ affects, pallets and satchels, which he carried down below. Jacob’s muscles tightened and bulged as he seized the barrel of ale from under the stern and carried it across the main deck. Several arms suddenly stuck out from the hatch, taking the burden away from the ship’s strong man.
“Is there room for the water barrel?” Jacob barked.
Piper’s head and shoulders appeared above deck. “We still need to fit the table and chairs.” he said. “Tie the barrel down.”
Timothy pushed past Piper, thundering up from below. He darted among the men, handing out dried meat and hunks of bread in preparation for the battle to come.
She froze where she stood and stared up at the patchy blue sky. How could Tristan be certain a storm was heading their way? She closed her eyes and breathed deep the salty air. It was so calm. A shiver shot up her spine. Too calm. The sea shone like smooth glass. The wind held its breath.
And then it started.
The wind expelled its breath in a rush. Blue patches of sky shone bright—their last stand. Her nose wrinkled against the pungent scent suddenly released from deep inside the sea’s belly. The clouds dropped. She reached her hand to the sky, sure she could touch the graying masses that had begun to writhe and spread, darkening with every breath she took.
The wind barreled toward them with a blast that forced her back.
It was here.
Tristan shouted orders over the din of the howling gusts. She jumped in to lend a hand where she could, securing lines, tying down anything that could roll around the deck when the ship started to rock and dip. After helping Timothy pack up the uneaten food, she whirled around and ran right into Tristan.
He gripped her shoulders. “Go down below. Secure yourself in our cabin.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I am all right.”
“It wasn’t a request,” he snapped. “It’s an order.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Ye can’t expect me to cower down below like a captured animal. Tristan, I can help. I can—”
Suddenly, he flung her over his shoulder.
“Have ye gone mad?” she shouted. “Put me down this instant. I am not yer sack of potatoes. Blast ye, Tristan. Tristan!”
She struggled against his strength as he barreled down the stairs.
“Nay,” she yelled. “Don’t do this. Please! Ye can’t shut me away.”
He opened the door and swung her over his shoulder onto the bed. “You will stay down here,” he commanded.
She scurried to her feet. “I will not,” she cried.
“You leave me no choice,” he rasped. Then he turned around and pulled a broad sword out from beneath his desk. She backed away as he came toward her. “By the Saint’s, ye’re mad!” She scurried up on the bed, pressing her back against the wall.
“It will be all right,” he said. Then he shut the door, leaving her in total darkness. Her breath caught at the sound of cracking wood.
“Nay,” she cried, rushing forward. She pushed against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. She knew he must have wedged the blade into the floor to block her way. She beat her fists against the wood.
“Come back,” she shouted. “Tristan! You cannot leave me down here!”
A crack of thunder shocked her ears. The sea no longer cradled the hull, it rocked and pushed and strained against the ship’s walls. She fell back on the bed. A breath later, sheets of rain battered the deck overhead. Waves beat the sides. She rolled back and forth, then scrambled off and sat in the small floor space, curling her knees to her chest. But she knocked against the table and then the door. The wind shrieked, screaming like a banshee across the moors. Above the din, she heard muffled shouts from the crew and the splash of waves on the deck. Water crept beneath the door, wetting her tunic. She pressed her feet into the door and her back against the bed, straining to keep her body from thrashing about as the boat dipped and swayed. The boards creaked and shuddered at her.
Hours choked past while she remained buried in twisting darkness. Fear of sinking to the dark abyss gripped her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images that came unbidden to her mind: a rising wave sweeping the deck with its salty tentacles, seizing the men and dragging them below. Tristan’s body flung into the air and swallowed by watery jaws, lost forever to the deep.
“Nay,” she cried.
That wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t!
But a sob escaped her throat. She knew better than most that the worst could always happen. Her heart pounded as she prayed for Tristan and the crew of the Messenger.
Then, just as suddenly as the storm began, the pelting rain stopped. The wind
continued to howl and toss the ship. But slowly the gale quieted, and her body no longer thrashed against the bed or the stand. She lit a candle to chase away the darkness the instant before she heard feet barreling down the steps, and the sound of the sword being wrenched free. Breathless, she pressed her hands into the floor and stood just as the door swung wide.
“Tristan,” she cried, as she drank in the sight of his strong shoulders silhouetted against the soft light slanting in from the open hatch. She flung herself into his arms. She coursed her hands over his shoulders, then up to cup his cheeks and back down his chest. “Are ye all right? Are ye whole?” she said, her voice as frantic as her hands.
“We are all fine,” he hastened to say. Then he cupped her cheeks. “Are you all right?”
She nodded as a knot formed in her throat. The weight of the last few hours came crashing down. Her legs gave way. He lifted her feet off the ground and crushed her to his chest. She sobbed, her tears loosening fear’s grip on her heart.
“We are all fine,” he crooned in her ear. “Philip, Davy, Piper, everyone. And your ship is fine, too. We’ll have to replace some of the halyards, but otherwise it weathered the storm.” He set her down and once more cupped her cheeks. She looked up at him, her heart still racing. “We are all fine,” he said. “Do you hear me, Rose?”
She fought for calm as the meaning of his words penetrated her fear. “We are all right,” she echoed.
“That’s right,” he soothed and held her close. “You must have been terrified alone down here.” He pulled away just enough to meet her gaze. “Forgive me, Rose. I did not order you below because I thought you incapable.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I can’t captain this ship and worry about your safety. I needed you to be safe.”
“I know,” she said. Her mind cleared. She took in his disheveled appearance. Black curls clung to his forehead. His tunic was torn at the shoulder.
“You were just trying to protect me.”