Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Do ye think one of the coracles can make it out there?” another man asked, referring to the small, round, leather-bottomed boats used to fish the shallow inlets.

  “Nae,” another answered. “Even if ye did, they doona hold more than two, and that would be risking it in this weather.”

  “We doona ken how many are aboard,” a third one said.

  “We’ll use my father’s longboat,” Robert said. “They are built for rough weather.”

  His comment ceased further conversation and the group looked at him, some with mouths agape.

  “We doona ken if she’s seaworthy,” one finally said.

  “She’s been kept in the water, hasn’t she?” Robert answered, already striding past the men toward his father’s boat.

  “That boat is your da’s pride and joy. He will skin us if it gets wrecked,” a second one said.

  “There’s a ship being wrecked and sinking as we stand here blethering.” Alasdair stomped off after Robert. “We need more men to row. Doona just stand there like green lads.”

  He might as well have called them cowards. The whole group surged forward, nearly trampling each other. By the time Robert had released the lines and Alasdair had helped him push the shallow-keeled boat into deeper water, twenty men were aboard, oars at the ready. He and Robert lifted themselves over the low freeboard as the boat floated free. Without a drum to establish the rhythm for the rowers, Alasdair started to call the cadence while Robert took the tiller.

  The boat glided smoothly through the protected waters of the inlet, but when it rounded the rocks, the rough chop of the loch raised the high prow over the crest of a wave and sent it crashing into a trough. Water sluiced over the crew. The men’s faces turned grim, but not one of them said a word, even as the pitching continued. To Alasdair, the movement felt much like trying to ride an unbroken horse. Actually, a bucking horse would probably feel better. Robert, however, looked nonchalant when Alasdair glanced back at him.

  “These boats have crossed the North Sea in worse than this,” he said.

  Not a single man answered. Considering many of them made their livings off the sea and were no strangers to it, spoke volumes to Alasdair. He picked up the pace of the beat, making the men concentrate only on rowing.

  As they drew near the listing boat, it bobbed erratically, and Robert gave a quick command to reverse oars. Immediately, without losing a stroke, the oars were lifted, turned, and dipped, bringing the longboat to a standstill, or at least as much of one as could be had in the churning water. Alasdair was amazed at the alacrity with which the men responded. Most of them were independent fishermen, not used to being part of a ship’s crew, but Robert’s voice held authority and command.

  “Keep her steady, men,” Robert said. “We cannot get any closer without the chance of colliding and breaking apart.”

  No one argued with him.

  They were probably a good fifteen to twenty feet away from the other vessel, too far to jump from one deck to another. Alasdair could see five men clinging to the rail, the heaving sea already sloshing over them.

  “Do you have a rope?” Robert called.

  “Aye,” one of the men yelled back. “Do ye want us to throw it and tow ye over?”

  “No,” Robert replied. “We cannot come closer. Weigh down the bitter end and toss it. Then each of you grab hold and jump. We’ll pull you in.”

  Conversation ensued among the men on the other boat, although Alasdair couldn’t hear any of it over the sound of the waves crashing against the hull. He couldn’t blame them for not wanting to jump into what looked like boiling water, but it was their only chance of survival.

  “Stop your blethering and jump!” he yelled.

  They stopped talking to look over at him. Apparently, one of them had enough sense to see reason. He bent down and, a moment later, the line snaked over the water. Alasdair caught hold of the wooden chock the man must have pried off the deck to give weight to the rope.

  “Slip me a piece of that so I can tail for you,” Robert said from behind him.

  Alasdair allowed a length of the rope back and then braced himself. He felt the line go taut. If the men didn’t jump soon, the longboat would be pulled toward them. If he let go of the lifeline, the men would perish.

  “Jump!” Eejits, that’s what they were. Bloody eejits.

  As if they heard his thoughts, the line loosened, he heard plops, and then the line tightened again. He and Robert began pulling. As they brought in the rope, more of the men helped tail while others readied themselves to pull the sailors from the water.

  Robert established a calm, two-count heave-ho, making it easier to draw the men closer. Within minutes, all five sailors were lying on the planks in the shallow belly of the longboat, gulping air.

  One of them finally pushed himself to a sitting position and pushed back his matted hair.

  Alasdair stared at the man. What in the hell was Owen MacLean doing in MacDonald territory?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bridget, Shauna, and his mother were up and waiting for Alasdair when he returned to the house well after midnight. He’d expected that, but he’d hoped his brothers had gone out to see what could be salvaged from the wreckage that would be floating to shore. Instead, they were all clustered around the kitchen table as he and Robert walked in followed by the five bedraggled sailors.

  Joanna jumped to her feet. “Did everyone survive?”

  “Aye,” Alasdair replied, giving his brothers a wary look before adding, “I brought them here for what remains of the night.”

  Gavin exchanged a look with Braden and Niall. “They’re MacLeans.”

  As if he couldn’t deduce that himself from the tartan sashes they wore over their shirts. He heard Shauna gasp and winced. If there had been any other place to take the men at this hour, he would have spared her seeing Owen again. Alasdair had mentioned as much to Robert, who’d reluctantly agreed he was right. Now Robert had a grim look on his face as he put his arm around his wife.

  Owen’s dark eyes took in the territorial gesture and he shifted his gaze to Joanna and gave a slight bow. “We are beholden to ye.”

  Rauri nudged Ewan. “Ye cannae trust a—”

  “Enough.” Alasdair would have preferred the MacLeans weren’t in his house either, but centuries of Highlander hospitality were ingrained. Not even an enemy was denied food and shelter if survival depended on it. Except for the incident of having been shot on MacLean lands last spring, with no proof of who the culprits were, the MacDonalds were not feuding with the MacLeans. At least, not at present.

  Joanna gave the lads a stern look. “Ye will do well to remember your manners.”

  Both boys flushed. “Yes, Mither,” they muttered together.

  She turned to her older sons. “Ye can show these men to Aiden and Lachlan’s rooms and get them some dry clothes before they catch a chill in those wet things.”

  From the set expressions on their faces, Alasdair felt sure they couldn’t care less if all five MacLeans took a chill and fever, but none of them were about to get themselves chastised by their mother. All three of them rose.

  “This way,” Braden said and headed for the doorway just as Margaret came down the stairs and into the kitchen. Barefoot, with her wrapper open, her hair loose and tousled, and eyes heavily lidded from sleep, she looked almost Fae.

  “What is going on? I heard…” She paused, her eyes widening as she noticed the five strange men, and quickly pulled her wrapper together. “Who are ye?”

  “Never mind.” Niall gestured to the MacLeans. “Follow my brother.”

  “Aye,” Gavin said, “go on with ye.”

  The men filed silently past Margaret, who gave them an openly curious look. Owen was the last one out. He paused and gave Margaret a slow smile. “I am Owen MacLean. At your service, lass.”

  M
argaret’s mouth dropped open, and for once, no words came out as she watched all of them leave.

  Alasdair sighed, hoping he hadn’t brought the devil home to roost.

  * * * * *

  Shauna paced back and forth in front of the unlit hearth in the parlor—or rather, she stomped. The morning sunlight streaming in the east window did little to soften her angry face. Bridget considered trying to calm her sister down but decided it would be a futile effort. However, Joanna probably wouldn’t appreciate a flattened path in her carpet.

  “Ye might stop wearing out the rug,” Bridget said. “Owen is nae here.”

  “Why was he here in the first place?” Shauna halted, although her stormy look didn’t diminish. “Doona answer that. I ken he was shipwrecked and Alasdair had to take him somewhere, but I want to ken what that mon was doing in a boat in these parts to begin with.”

  “Before Alasdair escorted them all to the public house this morning, Owen told him they had been headed to the isle of Eigg, but the storm caught them.”

  “And what would they be wanting on Eigg?”

  “To find out how much kelp production can be done there.”

  “Kelp? Since when…och, I remember now.” Shauna sank into the chair opposite Bridget. “Cousin Shane talked to him about the demand for kelp and soda ash last spring. I thought they would be using Loch Shiel, nae coming this far west. Eigg belongs to MacDonalds.”

  “It did,” Bridget said. “One of Owen’s men was quick to point out the MacDonalds on Eigg had been massacred by MacLeods.”

  Shauna’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis just like a MacLean to stir up trouble over something that happened two hundred years ago. Did Owen think he could revive a feud between us and Robert’s brothers?”

  “I doona ken. Luckily ’twas only Alasdair and the young lads at the table when it was said. Robert had already taken the others to work on the house.” Bridget smiled, thinking how Alasdair had coolly stared down the man who’d spoken.

  “Is something funny?” Shauna’s voice still had an edge to it.

  “Mayhap.” Bridget held up a hand to still her sister’s protest. “I was going to explain to the MacLeans that no one remembers what started the original feud, but it was MacDonalds who captured MacLeods, then set them adrift in the Minch with their hands bound, only Alasdair told the story before I could.” She smiled again. “I guess we both read the account Walter Scott wrote three years ago of finding the bones in the Cave of Frances that brought those stories back to life.”

  “Owen must have read the same thing,” Shauna replied. “Only he wanted to use it to stir up trouble. Arrogant man.”

  “Owen may have his faults—”

  “He has too many to count,” Shauna said.

  “Still, he is a good businessman.

  Shauna frowned. “If ye count that he tried to buy me for his wife.”

  “I think ye made it quite clear how ye felt about that.”

  “Aye, but I probably went about it wrong.”

  “Perhaps.” Bridget grinned at her sister. “But do ye remember the look on the faces of all those men—both MacLeans and MacDonalds—when ye announced it was nae a man’s right to decide who a woman should marry?”

  A corner of Shauna’s mouth lifted. “Truth be told, I was more concerned with what Ian would do to me after that statement.”

  “Ian may be our chieftain, but ye ken he would nae make ye marry a mon ye dinnae want.”

  “I ken it now, but I would still rather nae have to deal with Owen. His pride was hurt. Who kens if he doesnae seek revenge?”

  Bridget knit her brows in thought. Her sister could be right. Eigg was a good way west of MacLean lands, as Shauna had said. Was he really after kelp? “Well, at least he willnae be under Joanna’s roof any longer. The whole lot of them should nae be here but a few more days to salvage the boat.”

  “A few days that will seem like an eternity,” Shauna said.

  “Doona fash. Alasdair will keep them away from here.”

  “Alasdair does nae need to get any more involved with my problems. Robert will protect me.”

  “Ye are nae the only problem Alasdair is concerned about.”

  “Nae? What then? Does he think Owen is here for another reason besides kelp?”

  “I doona ken.” Bridget hesitated, wondering if she should go on. “Alasdair wants to be sure Owen has no contact with Margaret.”

  “Margaret?”

  “Aye. She looked a bit moonstruck last night, especially after Owen said he would be at her service.”

  Shauna’s eyes widened. “I had nae noticed, upset as I was.”

  “Margaret is young and impressionable,” Bridget said, “and Owen’s social skills were well-honed in London.”

  “Ye must talk to Margaret.”

  “I could try,” Bridget replied, “but something tells me the more we try to caution Margaret nae to do something, the more likely she is to plunder right in.”

  “But we cannae just let her be taken in.” Shauna frowned. “I knew Owen would be trouble. The sooner he is gone the better.”

  Bridget nodded. She suspected all of the MacDonalds would agree as well.

  * * * * *

  Alasdair joined the MacLeans and several other villagers on the shore later that morning. As much as he didn’t want to spend time away from Robert’s house to help the MacLeans, the sooner they salvaged the Alana—if it could be salvaged—the sooner they’d be on their way. He also wanted to see for himself what condition the vessel was in so no excuses could be made for prolonging the MacLeans’ stay.

  He watched as several of the locals provided skiffs for the MacLeans to row out to where the Alana was aground in the now calm seas. Owen and his captain—the man who’d reminded everyone of the MacLeod-MacDonald troubles this morning—were in the first skiff. The captain had been rather clever to bring up that ancient feud. It had served as a red herring to defuse another feud that happened around the same time involving the MacLeans and MacDonalds and lasted seven years.

  Distrust still remained since Scots, descendants of Viking and Celtic warriors, tended to keep defending their ancestors’ actions. Had Owen succeeded in creating an alliance with the MacLeods through marriage to Shauna, who knows what discord might have been revived.

  For now, a shaky peace of sorts was in place. And he intended to keep it that way.

  Villagers in a variety of rowboats, coracles and dinghies were already near the high side of the listing boat, throwing hooks to pull it upright. As Alasdair neared the vessel, he could see a gap in the hull near the bow, probably caused when the boat had bashed against the rocky breakwater. He rowed closer to where Owen and his captain were standing in their skiff, hands braced against the hull for balance, and discussing repairs. Two of the crew had gone on board while the other pair had taken their skiff around the stern and now joined Owen and the captain.

  “The rudder is in good shape.” one of the sailors said.

  A crew member looked over the rail. “The tiller is in one piece, but there’s water in the hold.”

  The captain scowled at him. “Of course there is. We have a hole in the hull.”

  Owen looked at Alasdair. “Do ye have the means to do the repairs here?”

  Alasdair looked at the damage. None of the ribands that made up the basic frame of the boat appeared to be broken. Pieces of two clinkered planks had been torn off though. To do the repairs properly would require pulling off the entire planks and replacing them with fresh-cut oak that would need to be steamed and shaped to fit the hull, the seams filled with Oakum and then caulked. That could take weeks. Neither Robert nor Shauna would be happy about that, and Alasdair didn’t want Owen here long enough to give Margaret any ideas either.

  “Loch Nevis, up the coast a wee bit by Mallaig, has a larger marina where proper repairs can be done,
” Alasdair said. “I think once ye right the boat, the hole will be well above the water line. We could do temporary repairs to patch the gap with wood and pitch.”

  “Will that hold well enough to get us to Eigg first?” Owen asked.

  Obviously, MacLean was more businessman than seaman. “It could if the seas stay calm. I’d nae risk it if your crew cannae swim a few miles.”

  Owen frowned and his captain cut in before he could make a decision. “A patch will get us to Loch Morar. We will stay close to shore just in case.”

  “How long will the patch take?”

  “Once the boat is righted, we can nail the patch in place, but we need to wait for the pitch to set and dry.” The captain shrugged. “A couple of days.”

  Better than weeks. “We have extra pieces of wood from Robert’s repairs,” Alasdair said. “There should be something that will work.”

  Owen didn’t look pleased, but he nodded.

  Since there was nothing they could do until the villagers had the boat floating, they returned to shore. Isobel stood waiting on the steps of the marine office.

  “Who is that?” Owen asked.

  “Isobel Howard, the parson’s daughter,” Alasdair replied. He found himself reluctant to add that she was his betrothed, so he simply introduced them to each other when they reached the steps.

  “I heard a ship wrecked last night,” Isobel said, looking at Owen. “Was it yours?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he replied. “I leased it out of Lochilort to sail over to Eigg, but the storm caught us.”