by Diana Cosby
Now, thankfully, they were taking advantage of the stiff breeze and headed west toward her home.
Exhausted and with muscles aching, Lathir climbed down the ladder to the hull. She moved around the charred debris with care to the iron pot straddling the fire on three forged iron rods. How long had it been since she’d last eaten? She couldn’t remember.
She leaned over the water they’d warmed over the fire and splashed her face clean of soot as best she could. Feeling refreshed, however slightly, she collected one of the woolen blankets they’d recovered from the unmarred supplies and wrapped it around her shoulders.
The pad of steps on the ladder sounded.
She glanced at Rónán as he reached the bottom. “I began to wonder if the rain would ever quit,” she said as he settled beside her. “Not that with the storm dousing any remaining embers am I complaining.”
Lengths of brown hair clung to the side of his face, the invading shadows of the night and the golden flicker of flames casting his eyes in shadows. The hard cut of his jaw reminded her of a pirate, his muscular form that of one seasoned in battle.
He was a man to admire; how could she not? Nor could she begrudge the way he took charge without hesitation. Traits no doubt that had attracted many a lass’s glance. With his confidence and quick decisions, he was clearly a warrior who’d faced many a battle, and a man who would no doubt leave a woman well-pleased.
She frowned inwardly and shook off the intimate musing. Since Domhnall’s death, never had a man caught her eye.
Grief built in her chest as she remembered her betrothed lying in her arms, blood draining from his chest as he fought to take his last breath. Though two years had passed, she still struggled against the pain of losing a man who was more than a man to wed, but a friend.
Rónán edged closer and lifted his hands near the flames, drawing her attention. “A boon in that, with the destruction and significant portions of the hull charred, if any ship spots us from a distance, they will believe the cog is adrift and unworthy of interest.”
The tang of dried meat and herbs she’d tossed together scented the air as Lathir stirred the bubbling stew, and her stomach growled. “That we are headed toward Ireland is what matters.”
“’Tis.” Grim-faced, he lowered his hands.
“Given our current pace, I suspect we are well off the northeast coast. Far away from where you believe they have taken my father.”
“Aye, nor can it be helped. ’Tis a blessing we are still afloat.”
“’Tis, but I worry we should come ashore in the realm of Tír Kythyr, where our travel will be dangerous.” Lathir filled two cups with stew, handed one to Rónán. “’Twill take us a few days travel on foot to reach my home.”
Without her father, an inner voice whispered. When more fear encroached into her thoughts, she clung to Rónán’s reasoning that if the English had wanted her father dead, they wouldn’t have dragged him onboard their ship.
Was he hurt?
Suffering?
Or was he sprawled in a rancid cell, dying?
Face pale, she shoved aside her food, and Rónán muttered a silent curse. She was thinking about her father. Which, at this moment, he could do bloody naught about. Nor could he overlook that as dire as their situation, he could have been stranded with someone far less worthy. He admired her resourcefulness and general calm, which now contrasted sharply against the ferocity she’d displayed in battle.
Deliberately, he turned their conversation to her comments of moments before. “Why will traveling be dangerous? Does Tír Kythyr support the English?”
“Aye.” As if distracting herself, she collected several pieces of plank fragments, wedged them within the dying flames. “’Tis safest if we travel by the cliffs until we reach my home. If we are forced to move deeper inland, we should travel only at night. God help us if they find me on their land.”
Dread seeped through him at the prospect of returning to Ireland. He grimaced, remembering the age-old disputes between the clans. Years had passed since he’d thought of the divisions in Ireland, the politics of the land.
“After over a century, one would think the bitterness between the clans would have faded.”
She arched a curious brow. “You have been to Tír Kythyr?”
“Through it,” he evaded, cursing the slip. He set down his cup of stew. “A long time ago.”
With night stealing the last wisps of day, she studied him, her gray eyes sharp with intelligence.
No doubt his vague reply had piqued her interest. Nor could that be helped. His past was one he wished to remain buried deep. Every man who entered the Knights Templar had a story, his own dark and unfit for hearing.
“Over the next few days,” he said, shifting the topic, “we will make sacks to carry the supplies we will need once we reach shore.”
She nodded. “I am ready to have land beneath my feet.”
“As I. How do you feel?”
Eyes heavy with fatigue, she offered him a weary smile. “As we were securing the makeshift sail to the damaged rigging, I was wondering if I would ever be warm again.”
A shiver whipped through him as he remembered how they’d battled the wind-driven rain, each knot made during the storm a victory. “Aye, the wind cuts right through your clothes and down to the bone.” He looked at the makeshift bed they’d fashioned. “With our sail naught but glorified rags, the ship doing naught more than lumbering in the swells, it may take several days before we reach land.”
“I hope ’twill be less.”
“As I.”
She added another broken plank to the small fire. “Though the wind is still strong, at least the storm has moved on.”
“The choppy seas should calm during the next few hours.”
A groan sounded overhead.
He frowned. “I need to check the rudder to ensure we are still heading west. Finish eating while I do.”
“I have little appetite. Nor,” she continued as he opened his mouth to tell her to stay, “did I see you finish your food.” She pulled free the blanket that was wrapped around her. “I shall go with you. As agreed, I will take my turn with the rudder while you rest. Besides, I suspect if I fell asleep, you wouldna awaken me ’til morning.”
An issue they’d argued over earlier. On a sigh, Rónán set aside his bowl. Stubborn lass. He sheltered the coals within the deep cavern created in the sand; even if the seas grew rough during the night, no embers would roll free, causing a fire.
He lit one of the tapers he’d found wrapped in a waxy cloth, pushed to his feet, and extended his free hand.
She accepted and stood.
He tossed the blanket over his shoulder and started toward the ladder. Her steps laden with fatigue, she walked at his side.
Tightening his hold on the taper, he climbed. An erratic dance of candlelight fractured the blackness as they made their way up. Near the top, he blew out the flame to conserve wax and prevent any ship, however distant, from seeing the light.
He wedged the taper in a split plank, climbed on deck, scanned the horizon. “We sail beneath a full moon, and it looks as though we are still heading west.” He turned to help her. Once she was free of the ladder, he handed her the cover. With the rush of the sea sliding past, he strode over and sat beside the rudder.
Lathir eased down beside him, offered him a length of the coverlet. “’Tis best if we conserve our warmth.”
“You should sleep by the fire below.”
In the sheen of moonlight, she arched a stubborn brow.
Blast it. Rónán accepted part of the blanket, willing himself not to think of her nearness, or how her soft scent of woman and night teased him as she shivered against the breeze. Damning his decision, one sure to make him suffer, he shifted closer. “Lean against me for warmth.”
She hesitated, then lay her
head against his chest, pulling the spread around them.
The rush of the sea rumbled against the bow as the cog cut into an oncoming swell.
She shifted, then again. “I canna sleep.”
The soft, silken sadness in her voice smothered his ire. She’d endured so much, and he suspected that although she would never admit it, was afraid. “We will do everything in our power to save your father.”
Her breath feathered against his neck. “I know, but there is so much that could go wrong.”
“There is. We will try our best; we canna do more.”
The blanket rustled, and the play of moonlight outlined her as she angled her face toward him. “I remember him fighting his captors as he was dragged away.”
“He is a warrior. If an option presents itself, he will escape.”
“I pray so. I wish he knew we are alive.”
“He will learn soon enough.”
For long moments she stared into the night, then released a weary sigh. “How long have you been away from Ireland?”
His hand tightened on the rudder. “Sixteen years.”
The cog groaned as it angled up a swell. “’Tis a long time to be away from your home.”
“’Twas never a home,” he stated. “I chose to leave.”
“Why?”
Caught off guard, Rónán stilled an instant denial. After what she’d been through this day, if he could take her thoughts off her worries, however briefly, perhaps he should tell her. Besides, he and his torturous issues didn’t mean anything except to him. Soon she’d be gone from his life.
Jaw tight, he lifted his gaze to the moon. “I was an orphan, yet fortunate to be adopted at a young age. Or so I was repeatedly told.” Unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice, he closed his eyes against the blast of memories, damning each one. “Few knew that my supposed savior was little more than a vile man who spoke through his fists and drew pleasure from depriving a child of food.”
At her gasp, he glanced down to find her eyes wide with distress.
“Nay one tried to stop him?”
He grunted. “Nay one looked too closely at a bruised, gangly lad. After all, I was fortunate enough to have a roof over my head.” Rónán inhaled, the tang of the sea sharp as his mind tumbled to an ancient memory. “After years of living in fear, of doing whatever it took to keep alive, one night when I was seven summers, the man who’d adopted me stumbled in, well in his cups.”
“W–what happened?”
The anguish of that fateful night wrenched him down dark paths he’d vowed never to recall. Yet he forced himself to continue. “I hid beneath his desk, which I had learned was the safest place. Rarely did he find me there.”
“And if he did?”
“He would beat me.”
She gasped. “What a detestable creature!”
“I loathed him,” he spat. “However wrong it may be in the eyes of the Church, I pray he is long dead.”
Eyes dark with compassion held his. “Understandably. Thank God you escaped.”
“Not in time,” he said grimly. “I must have made a sound, something that alerted him to my presence. In his drunken stupor, he dragged me from beneath the desk and beat me.”
In the moonlight, her face paled.
“At some point, I blacked out. All I remember was waking up the next morning, the hut reeking of ale and blood. I pulled myself up to my feet.” Paces away, the bastard was draped over his bed, snoring, a tilted grimace on his scarred face.” He shook his head. “At that moment, I knew I had to leave. The next time I might not be fortunate enough to survive. Grabbing a stick, I hobbled into the forest and never looked back.”
The night pressed on him as his words faded.
After a heavy pause, she lay a hand on his arm. Rónán pushed it away, not wanting her sympathy. He was no longer that lost and damaged child. Yet when he met her gaze, the softness in her eyes threatened to jolt something free inside him.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“’Twas a long time ago.”
Within the shards of silvery moonlight, outrage blazed bright in her eyes. “Nay child should endure what you did.”
He shook his head, unable to express what he was feeling, unsure if he should. Never had he intended to let her feel anything for him. Nobility flowed through her veins.
And who was he? A runaway orphan who’d perfected his distance from anyone or anything other than the Knights Templar. Until this boldly brash woman with beautiful eyes had burst into his life and threatened to destroy his long-held defenses.
Rónán inhaled and straightened, shrugging their shared blanket from their shoulders and dispersing her scent. He could ill afford to allow himself thoughts of her beyond the end of this mission. Once they’d rescued Lord Sionn, and he prayed that quickly came to pass, he would load the weapons needed by King Robert and depart. Then, never again would they see the other.
“You are right. No child should be subjected to such atrocity. But”—he scanned the water before turning back to her—“we both know life is not fair. ’Tis up to each of us to make the most of our opportunities, or create those to move to a better path.”
“Which you did.” Admiration flickered on her face. “I am proud of you, of the strength you found those many years ago.”
“Dinna be,” he said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. “’Twas survival, naught more.”
“I disagree. Many a lad wouldna have dared to run.”
His chest tightened, and he remained silent. Regardless of her belief, his actions had been far from honorable. After several moments, he frowned, for an unexplainable reason finding it important to tell her of his original intent. “When I left, I never meant to return to Ireland.”
“I can understand why. You needed to remove yourself from a brutal situation.” She paused. “There are so many decent people in this world. I pray that the horrendous actions of that vile scoundrel didna ruin your ability to see the good in others.”
“It didna.” His past may have shaped his youth, but the Knights Templar, elite warriors who were like brothers, had given him more than a way of life, but friendship. “Over the years I have witnessed much ill among people, but I have seen much good.”
“I am pleased. ’Twould make me sad to think that you have lived with the cur’s dastardly actions having marred your life.”
With a shrug, he shifted back. Flickers of moonlight skimmed across the sea in a somber array as the bow cut through the oncoming swell. “I rarely think of him.” His past was not something he lingered on.
“What is his name? Mayhap I have heard of him.”
“I doubt it. Nor does it matter. ’Twas a long time ago.”
She wiped strands of hair that escaped from her face. “Mayhap, but I want to know the name of the man who, if he still lives, will feel my wrath.”
Moved by her fierceness, he shot her a wry smile. “Have you ever been told that you are stubborn?”
A smile touched her lips. “Often, by my father and many others.” Lathir arched a brow. “The scoundrel’s name, then?”
He released a slow sigh, aware she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had a reply. “Feradach O’Dowd.”
In the moonlight, her face blanched.
“You know him?” he forced himself to ask.
She gave a visible swallow. “Aye. Sir Feradach O’Dowd is now a powerful man in the realm of Tír Kythyr, and is the master-at-arms for the Earl of Ardgar, my father’s enemy. Someone we must avoid.”
Chapter Three
Streams of silvery moonlight skimmed across the sea as if mocking the shocked outrage that pierced Rónán. It was a moment before he could speak. “In my youth,” he growled, “I knew Feradach traveled often on unsavory business, and on occasion disreputable men would visit his home. Now, to learn…”
He dragged in a steady breath as he adjusted the rudder. “God’s truth! To learn that not only is the bastard still drawing a breath but has been elevated to a master-at-arms is intolerable!”
“I assure you, with his violent reputation, many were as outraged by the Earl of Ardgar’s selection for master-at-arms. And many more wish Feradach’s body was rotting beneath the ground.” Lathir paused. “I doubt we will encounter Sir Feradach, much less have him pose a threat to our mission. Our time traveling afoot will be minimal, and he often resides in one of the earl’s strongholds on the southeast coast of Ireland.”
That he wouldn’t have to face Feradach was poor consolation after the brutality he’d suffered in his youth at the cur’s hands. Anger slamming through him, Rónán shoved to his feet. “Take the rudder.”
Eyes wide with concern met his. “Where are you going?”
“To see if our makeshift repairs on the bow are holding.” He wanted to be alone, to think. His mind a turbulent mull, Rónán strode to the front of the cog, welcomed the cold bite of wind as the vessel raised up against the incoming swell, then plunged into the trough.
As he methodically checked the repairs, the solemn cadence of wood against sea slowly brought solace. How many times had he let the freedom of the sea fill him, the sense of the wholeness one experienced when surrounded by such immense greatness?
Though many men cursed the ocean, as a lad he’d found his time underway healing. A place where he could begin again.
The soft scrape of steps had him glancing over his shoulder.
Framed within the moonlight, Lathir walked toward him, halted at his side as the ship rose up with another swell. She had forgone the blanket and wrapped her arms around herself. The wind, he couldn’t help but notice, rippled the fabric of her cloak against her skin.
“This is my favorite place to go when I need to weigh my thoughts,” she said.