It’s now or I remain here until I die. With the way things are—no food, no fresh water, sopping wet—that won’t be long. Worse comes to worst, I come back here and brave the open water. How badly do I want to live? How badly do I want to see Kyle? You know the answer to that, Moira. Move yourself.
Moira eased her way into the darkness. The tunnel echoed, making it difficult to predict where it led. Kicking with little force, Moira swam further into the recesses of the cavern wall. Every few minutes, a lapping wave pushed against her, jostling her against the wall but not impeding her progress. As the strength of the waves grew, she knew she must be nearing the opening on the far side. But her hands brushing against a wall forced Moira to stop. She looked around, but there was no light coming from in front of her. She felt the water pushing up from beneath her, and she bit back a groan. The way out was submerged. The best she could hope for was to hold her breath long enough to find the opening. The water would try to force her back into the cave. If she could just spot daylight, she would have the hope that she could find her means of escape.
Remembering what Cormac, one of the clan council elders, taught her as a child when she and his sons learned to swim, she took several slow, deep breaths, holding each one a little longer than the last. She conditioned her lungs for when she would dive into the abyss and pray that she came out the other side. Reaching below the water, she pulled off one boot then the other, instantly feeling pounds lighter. She wasn’t ready to forsake the footwear, knowing she would need them on land. Fumbling in the darkness, she tied them together and slung them around her neck. On her fifth inhalation, she dove below the surface, kicking as hard and fast as she could. Eyes open but unseeing, her hands guided her as she found another opening barely wide enough for her to pass through. Never had she been so glad to be built more like a lass than a lady. Her lungs burned as she kept kicking, her hands pushing along the walls, helping her to glide through.
She desperately wanted to breathe, her body railing against her mind. But she reasoned that she was no fish; breathing water wouldn’t work. Her ears rang from the pressure, and the instinct to panic and flail threatened her. She reached above her, testing to see if there was space between the water level and the ceiling of the tunnel. She knew there wasn’t, but her mind demanded she try. Blinking several times to clear her mind, she continued forward. She could only keep moving forward. She’d gone too far to turn back and make it to the surface before she ran out of air. She fought the dizziness that set in as air bubbles formed around her mouth. She was slowly losing the air she held in her mouth and lungs. Her head felt as though it were in a vice, and pinpricks of light danced before her eyes.
I’m dying. This is where I will die. No one will ever know. No one will ever find me.
Moira wanted to sob, but there was no way to do it while submerged in her watery grave. As she used the dregs of her energy to keep moving forward, she realized the darts of light she saw weren’t from her oxygen deprived mind. She was seeing daylight. But as she realized she’d found daylight, blackness danced at the corners of her vision. She struggled against it, the last of her air being consumed as she fought. Just as everything faded from sight, something drew her forward as though a sea god sucked on a straw.
The pressure in her head vanished, and the tightness of the confining tunnel disappeared. She broke through the surface and found herself only feet from the beach. Spluttering and with no more strength to swim, she half inched along the rock wall and half let the surf push her in. When her toes met sand, she let the surf float her onto land. Lying sprawled on the beach, Moira didn’t have the energy to shield her eyes from the sun. She closed them as she wheezed, her chest more painful than anything she’d ever experienced. Her nose and throat burned, and her eyes stung. She felt like she had half the sea in her ears. But she was on land. When she no longer feared she would die if she moved, she rolled to her side and rested again before forcing herself upright.
He’s not there. He left.
Moira scanned the empty cove, finding neither the Lady Charity nor the Lady Grace. There weren’t any O’Malley boats either. She was completely alone.
Twenty
When Moira was convinced she could stand, she dragged herself across the beach, hoping to find driftwood to build a fire. To her great disappointment, there weren’t even shells in the sand. With her head bobbing, she looked toward the path leading up the cliff. It felt insurmountable, even though she’d climbed it just that morning. Groaning, she sat to put her waterlogged boots back on.
What choice do you have? You have no shelter, no fresh water, no way to make a fire. You’re soaking wet and just as likely to die staying on this beach as you were in that tunnel and cave. You know there’s a meadow above. You know there are trees. You can seek shelter from the wind and build a fire there. There might even be a village within walking distance. But you won’t know if you don’t move your arse. So what’s it going to be? Die on the beach after nearly killing yourself to escape that cave? Bluidy waste. Move yourself, Moira. Kyle’s not here to protect you. He’s not going to rescue you. For all you know he’s dead, or he’s given up on you. Either way, you’re alone. Are you going to dissolve into a heap of tears or show a leg?
Moira trudged across the sand, instructing herself not to look up the cliff. She didn’t want to see how far she had to climb. She just wanted to get to the top. But try as she might, she couldn’t combat the temptation to look out to sea. The higher she climbed, the further her view. Just as she reached the summit of the path, she spotted something white on the northern horizon. Shielding her eyes and squinting, she was certain she was looking at the sails of two ships.
Kyle. But why are they sailing north? Why did he leave so soon? Did he even bother to search for me? Moira’s shoulders slumped as she fought down her rising gorge and the urge to sob. That won’t get me anywhere. What I need is shelter and a way to get dry. Food would be nice.
Moira turned off the path and stepped toward the meadow, only to ram into a man’s chest.
“Just in time for supper, Moira. Then a good frigging to make our betrothal a marriage.”
Moira looked into Dermot O’Malley’s eyes and screamed, then vomited sea water down his leggings and boots before she turned and ran.
“Run as fast as you can,” Dermot dared. “But you won’t escape me like you did your idiot brother or your barbaric lover.”
Moira didn’t slow down. She didn’t know where she headed or what she would find. She didn’t know if she could escape or would die trying. But she refused to go with Dermot willingly. She bolted north, a part of her knowing her wish to catch Kyle was unrealistic, but it was also the direction away from Dermot and his men. She hadn’t gotten a good look at any of them, so she didn’t know if they were well-trained warriors in peak condition or heavyset slugs like Dermot. The exhaustion she’d experienced only minutes earlier as she staggered across the beach disappeared as fear once again propelled her forward. She scanned the landscape ahead of her, praying she could make it across the meadow, not caring what she might find on the other side as long as it took her away from the O’Malleys.
As the headland curved, Moira shifted directions to cut across the tall grass. She heard the labored breaths of the men chasing her, but none sounded as though they were tiring. Pumping her arms and pushing her legs as they burned, she neared the edge of the meadow. Skirting a copse of trees, but hurdling several tree trunks in her way, she caught sight of rooftops. A village lay ahead of her, but she couldn’t discern its size. She prayed she could get lost among the buildings until the O’Malleys abandoned their search. Every head turned toward her as she tried to navigate the narrow dirt roads, weaving between the buildings. She knew she was a sight: a disheveled, wet stranger running through the village like a loon. But no one stood in her way, and that was all that mattered to Moira.
“Lass,” an older farmer called as she neared the edge of the village. “Come inside. They won’t thin
k to look in here for you.”
Moira didn’t dare look back. She could only assume that she’d put enough distance between her and her pursuers that they wouldn’t see her duck inside the cottage. She sprinted through the door and came to a halt as four faces turned wide eyes toward her. A woman and three children gawked at her as she stood before them, a puddle forming at her feet. The farmer’s wife nodded and ushered her toward the back of the building. The older woman scrambled to find a blanket to wrap around Moira as her teeth chattered. The children continued to stare at her as Moira shivered in the back corner of their home.
The farmer closed the door and turned to Moira, an expectant look on his face. “What has you running from the O’Malleys?”
“He attacked a ship I was on and tried to take me. When I made it to shore, he was waiting,” Moira said. If anyone learned her brother, a chieftain, signed a betrothal agreement giving her to Dermot, they would turn her over to him without question. The moment Dónal signed, she became Dermot’s property. He need only consummate the betrothal for it to become a binding marriage. Moira would kill Dermot somehow, some way, before she allowed him to couple with her.
“Lass, the only ships that have been within spitting distance of us were the ones belonging to the Red Drifter and the Scarlet Blade,” the farmer noted. Moira tried to keep her expression impassive, but it was the first time she’d heard Keith’s moniker. She thought it rather fitting. “Would you have been aboard one of those vessels?”
Moira didn’t know how to answer. If she told the truth, there were few plausible reasons for her to be on Kyle’s ship other than being his mistress. But if she lied, then she would have to come up with a series of half-truths and complete falsehoods to explain why she wound up on the beach. There was only one thing she came up with. “I was on my brother’s ship.”
“Your brother?” The farmer’s wife gasped and stepped around Moira to look at her face. “Your brother is a wretched crew member on a pirate ship?”
The woman squawked and flapped her hands like an irate mother goose. Moira wondered if she’d just dug herself into a hole from which she couldn’t escape. She wondered if making it sound as though Kyle and Keith were her brothers would be better. She didn’t want to use intimidation with the couple that welcomed her into their home and offered her sanctuary. But she wondered if it would strike enough fear in at least the woman for her to keep quiet. She would take the risk. If she erred, she would run again.
“My brothers are the captains. I was on the Red Drifter’s ship when the O’Malleys attacked,” Moira clarified.
“You’re the Red Drifter’s sister—” the farmer cocked an eyebrow. “And the Scarlet Blade’s sister? And I’m bluidy King Conchobar mac Nessa come back from the dead. More likely you were his mistress.”
Moira straightened to her full but unimpressive height and offered the haughtiest expression she could. She attempted to look like Lizzie. “I am—” Moira scrambled to think of a Scottish name rather than her Irish one— “Catriona MacLean.” Moira realized neither Kyle nor Keith might want their clan name bandied about. But it was too late. Moira couldn’t and wouldn’t take it back.
“Then why do you sound like an Irishwoman?” pointed out the farmer.
“Because we fled when we were weans. I was brought to Ireland and my brothers went to sea,” Moira reasoned. “Now that I’m old enough to sail with them, I do.”
“You’re a lady pirate?” chirped a young girl of about nine summers. “Are you a pirate queen?”
Moira gulped. She’d really backed herself into a corner. She offered a half-hearted smile before she spun yet another lie. This conversation had raced out of control, and she was now as thick in the weeds as she would have been if she’d denied being aboard the Lady Charity or Lady Grace. “I can’t pick my kin. What my brothers do is their choice. I mend their stockings and darn their leines. I remain out of the way. But they are my family and all that I have.”
“Are you trying to find them then?” The farmer cut in.
“That’s what I wish. I fear they think I drowned at sea. Last I saw from atop the cliffs were two ships sailing north,” Moira explained.
“Wicklow. If your brothers think you’re alive and on land, that is the closest port they could sail into.”
“How far is that?” Moira wondered.
“Half a day’s sail if the wind is with them,” the farmer estimated.
“And on horseback?” Moira pressed.
“A day,” the farmer answered, a speculative expression settling on his visage. “Would you be thinking to go to Wicklow, lass?”
“If I had a way,” Moira said, matching the man’s speculative mien with a forlorn one of her own. The man only nodded before looking at his wife to communicate silently. The woman bustled forward and pulled Moira into a nook cordoned off to give the couple privacy at night. Without a word, the woman sized Moira up and tsked. She went to a chest that creaked as she opened it. She withdrew a gown but shook her head.
“You’re a wee thing, much smaller than I ever was. This won’t work.” She dug a little deeper until she looked back at Moira, scowled, and pulled out a leine and leggings. “These were my older son’s before he married and left home.”
She walked over to Moira and held them up, canting her head one way then the other. Moira stood silently as she waited for the woman to offer them to her. With puckered lips, the farmwife handed them to Moira.
“You can change here, and we can hang your clothes to dry before the fire. Your boots too. Mind you, you’re wiping up the puddles you’re leaving.”
“Thank you. Your kindness is appreciated,” Moira murmured, her teeth still chattering despite the blanket taking away some of the chill. The woman grunted and stepped past the partition into the primary room of the cottage. Moira hurried to remove the sodden clothing, struggling to peel them from her arms and legs. The leine and leggings were a surprisingly good fit, so she used the already damp blanket to dry the floor beneath her feet. She hurried to gather her clothes and boots before peeking her head into the family living space. When neither the farmer nor his wife said anything, Moira crossed the room and spread out her shirt and leggings. She put her boots as close to the fire as she dared. As she stood up, a grimy little hand tugged on hers. Moira looked down to find the youngest child, a boy of about five summers.
“Tell me what it’s like to be a pi-wat,” the boy pleaded. Moira sucked in a breath, about to offer the only truth she could.
“I’ve never actually been on a pirate ship when it’s attacked another boat. I only know what it is to sail on the open sea,” Moira confessed.
“You’ve never seen your brothers set a ship ablaze, skewer the other crew? You’ve never seen your brother set a man adrift?” The oldest girl said with disbelief.
“They’ve attacked no one while I’ve been aboard,” Moira stated. “Only the O’Malleys have attacked us.”
“And why would they do that?” The farmer joined the conversation. He maintained the speculative look in his eyes, and it made Moira uneasy. The man might have offered her shelter, but the hairs on the back of her neck and forearms told her not to trust him.
“I don’t know why my brothers haven’t attacked with me onboard. I don’t sail with them for long stretches, so I suppose they don’t so as to keep me safe,” Moira suggested.
“And where are you when you’re not with your brothers?” The farmer inquired.
“The Hebrides,” Moira answered. She was certain Kyle and Keith returned to the isles from time to time, likely to hide the booties they gained. Besides, the Isle of Barra lay in the Hebrides, and that’s where she’d intended to go. Not that much of a stretch.
“Hmm. I meant, why did the O’Malleys attack?” The farmer clarified.
“Because I’ve heard they’re pirates too,” Moira said with a shrug as the middle child led her to the table and the older woman set a bowl of steaming pottage before Moira. She risked scalding her mouth
because she was freezing, hungry, and unwilling to say more until she could gather her thoughts. Begrudgingly, the wife brought Moira a second bowl. By the time she finished, Moira could barely keep her eyes open.
“You can sleep over there,” the wife pointed to one child’s bedroll. As she opened her mouth to thank the woman, she realized she had heard none of their names. Even though she’d offered a pretend one, she’d at least introduced herself. When she glanced at the couple, she caught them staring at her as they whispered. Moira decided in that moment that she would sleep as long as she dared and slip away when it was dark. The couple was still standing together when Moira drifted off.
Twenty-One
Moira awoke to the sound of the door closing. She peered around the dimly lit cottage, finding the three children sleeping within arm’s reach. Silently, she crawled to the end of her bedroll and peered around the partition to find the farmwife still sleeping, light snores drifting from her. Moira also noticed that the woman slept alone. Glancing at the only window opening in the cottage, she saw the moon and a handful of stars. It was still the middle of the night. Moira could think of a singular reason the farmer would slink out under the cover of darkness. He was going to betray her.
Years of padding around Sean’s chamber without waking him after soothing his night terrors taught Moira to dress and undress in the dark and without making a sound. She watched the children in the firelight, ensuring none were watching her as she changed back into the clothes Braedon lent her. Her mind flashed a brief image of him, and Moira prayed the boy survived the battle. She looked around the small area set aside for preparing food. She didn’t want to steal from the family who’d already generously fed and clothed her, but she felt little remorse when she reminded herself the O’Malleys were likely on their way to the cottage now.
The Red Drifter of the Sea: A Steamy Opposites Attract Pirate Romance (Pirates of the Isles Book 3) Page 16