Forbidden Realm

by Diana Cosby

  “Rónán!”

  Muscles burning, he glanced up.

  Face raw with fear, holding on to the line, Lathir lay on one of the oddly flat stone leaning over the edge.

  “Stay back!” Ignoring the pain, the cold wracking his body, he braced both feet against the rock. Hands fisted on the rope, he began to climb.

  Another swell crashed over him.

  He tightened the rope around his body seconds before he was jerked downward. Sodden, his hands numb, through sheer will he held on as he again slammed into the rocks, the large section of the broken hull splintering against the rocks paces below.

  Blackness threatened. A sharp tug had him looking up.

  Lathir’s hair whipped around her face as she pulled on the rope.

  “Get back!” Wind ripped away his warning as his body was again hurled against the stone.

  The rope snapped taut. “Rónán!”

  He gasped for breath, sensation in his body fading, his teeth beginning to chatter uncontrollably. Vision blurring with cold, he fought to remain awake. Another wave battered him, the icy slide of water draining his strength.

  The rope lifted a degree.

  “Hold on!” Lathir’s voice came as if from far away, and he closed his eyes, the urgency to remain alert dwindling as he succumbed to the blackness.

  * * * *

  Fear tore through Lathir as Rónán’s body hung limp below her. Only the line wrapped around his waist held him paces above the vicious rush of waves. “Rónán!”

  Like a cloth doll, he dangled as the spray buffeted him over and again.

  Saint’s breath, she couldn’t lose him!

  “Move aside, lass!”

  The deep, raspy voice had her tightening her grip on the rope as she grabbed her sgian dubh and whirled.

  A tall, rangy man with sodden brown hair and a beard framing a harsh, weather-beaten face waved her back.

  Heart pounding, she angled her blade toward him. “Stay away!”

  “God’s teeth, lass, had I wanted to kill you, you would have long since been dead.” He scowled at the taut rope. “Wasting time arguing willna help your man.”

  The truth. He was an imposing man, with a ragged scar slashed across his cheek and unforgiving dark eyes. She took a quick moment to make her decision. Her breathing ragged, she secured her blade, keeping her other hand tight on the rope. “Hurry, help me!”

  The stranger knelt beside her, caught the line. “Pull.” A swell crashed below, hurling water over them as they hauled Rónán up and onto the icy rocks.

  Eyes closed, hair a sheen of icy strands, Rónán lay unmoving, water streaming from his sodden garb.

  Grief tore through Lathir, and she fought the panic rising in her chest. “Oh God,” she choked out. “He’s dead!”

  The stranger grunted. “Nay, lost consciousness due to cold.” With ease, he slung Rónán’s wet, limp body over his shoulder. “Follow me and take care,” he yelled over the rush of water. “’Tis slick.”

  Shivering, Lathir scrambled up, shielding her face from the wind. “Where are you taking him?”

  Shards of ice cracked beneath his boots as he picked his way along the slippery, oddly patterned rocks. “Look toward the ridge. If you see smoke through the rain, ’tis from my home.”

  Lathir scanned the winter-ravaged land as she hurried in his wake. Against the lash of rain, she made out steep cliffs as far as she could see, except for a steep but navigable incline to their right that narrowed at the top. She followed the upper rim, saw naught by the blurry outline of rock.

  “I canna believe you made out our ship in this foul weather,” she shouted as they made their way through the rocks.

  “I saw the storm clouds moving in on my way back from fishing, so I went out to gather wood.”

  Rónán groaned as he shifted his limp form to his other shoulder.

  “I was about to haul in another load when I saw your cog in the distance heading straight toward shore.” He stepped gingerly over a jagged rock. “If you call that charred and battered ship barely afloat such.”

  “We were attacked at sea,” she rasped, the fear for her father, and grief of losing so many good men, thickening her words. “Most of the crew died.”

  “I am surprised your attackers let you and your man live.”

  “When they sailed off, the cog was engulfed in flames. We thought…” She fought the terror still haunting her and took a moment to compose herself. “We believed we would die a horrible death. But after the enemy sailed from view, a storm drenched the ship. I assure you, had the attackers known we were alive, they wouldna have left until the last board slid into the sea.”

  “Who attacked the ship?”

  She hesitated. Was he a champion of the English, or was his loyalty given to the Bruce?

  He glanced back. “Nay, I know,” he spat. “Nay doubt English scum. I have seen their ships passing by often enough. They think they can stop King Robert by severing support from Ireland, but they will fail.”

  Relief swept through her, and a sliver of the tension in her body eased. “’Twas.”

  “You were indeed fortunate.” He wove along the oddly patterned stones. “Yet you managed to sail to shore.”

  “The rudder was undamaged, and we tied pieces of tattered sail together to make repairs. With more holes than fabric, though pathetic, it allowed us to hobble to the coast. Though ’twas ineffective once we became caught in a current that dragged our vessel to shore.”

  “Had the storm been upon us and visibility as ’tis now, I would have missed you.”

  Rain battered them as they climbed down to the beach, cluttered with small rocks. White water from crashing waves exploded in the air as they worked their way along the coastline. Regardless of his sodden state, their rescuer kept up a steady, ground-eating pace.

  Fresh anxiety twisted in her chest at Rónán’s face devoid of color, and the bluish tint of his lips. Please God let him live! “I would have your name, to thank you.”

  “Tighearnán.” Ice coated his brows, lashes, and beard as he shot her a measuring look. “I need nay thanks. ’Tis the way of life to help those you can when you live near the sea.”

  “Not all share your way of thinking.”

  He grunted and started up the steep slope.

  Exhausted, her entire body aching, she kept pace, refusing to allow Rónán out of her sight.

  “I am called Lathir. The man you carry is Rónán.”

  Though he’d saved Rónán’s life, until she knew more about the stranger, was sure she could trust him, ’twas best to conceal Rónán’s being a knight and her nobility, or correct Tighearnán’s belief that they were wed.

  He continued to climb.

  A loud crash had her turning, squinting through the rain. In the distance, caught in an oncoming swell, the tattered pieces of the Aodh slammed against the rocks. Planks exploded from the remnants of the deck, and shattering wood was swept into the rush of waves.

  Memories stormed her, of the times she’d sailed aboard the cog with her father, of his laughter, his sage advice and, regardless the issue, how she could always turn to him.

  Emotions raw, she searched for fragments of the beloved ship upon the swell, as bits popped up, were tossed about in the rough seas.

  She swallowed hard. Nay, all was not lost. ’Twas but hewn timber, which they could rebuild, and her father still lived. She refused to believe otherwise. They would find and rescue him. But how?

  With a heavy heart, she continued up the steep slope, fighting against the aches in her limbs. As they topped the ridge, she glanced around.

  The rolling hills beyond sprinkled with errant trees, the sweep of land pummeled within the storm’s embrace.

  Lathir swallowed hard, hurried toward where Tighearnán was approaching a small hut, blessed smo
ke belching from the chimney. Warmth Rónán desperately needed.

  “What is it you do?” she asked, refusing to give in to the wash of panic.

  “I am a fisherman.”

  “I didna see your boat.”

  “’Tis secured behind rocks on shore around the bend.”

  At the thick-hewn entry, he jerked open the door and stepped inside.

  Lathir followed, pulled the door shut, thankful when the blessed heat embraced her.

  He strode to where a bed haphazardly covered with blankets sat paces from the hearth, laid Rónán upon the covers, then began tugging off his sopping garb. “Remove his trews and boots.”

  With a nod, Lathir quickly complied, aware the wet clothes would hamper his body receiving much-needed heat. The drenched clothing slapped as it hit the aged wood floor, but her gaze was riveted on Rónán’s naked body.

  Though she knew his body was forged by muscle, it hadn’t prepared her for Rónán’s sheer magnificence, a sight forever imprinted on her mind.

  “Órlaith,” the fisherman snapped as he laid a blanket over Rónán, “bring over a bucket of warm water and a cloth.”

  “Aye, Papa.”

  Lathir started as a girl she gauged around eight summers hurried with a pail toward a kettle simmering near the edge of the hearth. In the rush to get Rónán inside and warm, she’d missed seeing the child.

  “Lass, take this side of the cover.”

  Startled, she glanced up. The fisherman was holding the edge of the thick blanket toward her. Thankful for the diversion, Lathir focused on tucking in the cloth around his shoulders, then pulling another blanket atop.

  The fisherman stepped back, frowned. “Once he begins shaking, ’twill be difficult to hold him still.”

  “Why?”

  A spark popped in the hearth as he arched a brow. “Have you never been around a man near to freezing?”

  She shook her head.

  “Once his body begins to warm, any places that have been frostbitten can itch, swell, burn, and ’twill be very painful. Dinna fash if your man cries out, or if his body shudders God awful.”

  “I see.” Except she didn’t. Why must Rónán suffer further? Though he was alive; for that she’d be thankful.

  The girl handed her the bucket and cloth.

  “I thank you,” she said.

  Shy brown eyes held hers for a moment before she stepped behind her father.

  Tighearnán nodded to the child. “Off with you, now. Finish the stew you are making. I will introduce you to the lass once she has taken care of her man.”

  “Aye, Papa.” Eyes filled with youthful curiosity slid to Lathir, then the girl hurried to the opposite side of the hut, where a small pile of cut vegetables lay.

  “We are both soaked. We need to change as well.” Their host nodded to a trunk near the wall. “There are gowns that will fit you inside.” He walked to another chest on the opposite wall, withdrew dry clothes.

  Once he’d turned, she selected and donned a gown as fast as her shaking limbs allowed.

  “’Tis best to warm him slowly,” the fisherman advised her as he returned. “Rinse the cloth in hot water often and wipe it over the affected skin until ’tis warm. Let me know if you need more water heated.”

  She stilled and her throat clogged as the full impact of his words sank in. She was to draw the heated cloth over Rónán’s body, every curve, every intimate part.

  “I will return in a moment.” Tighearnán departed.

  Rónán’s body jerked, and he began to shake.

  On a steadying breath, she rinsed the woven fabric and pressed it against him, struggling to keep her attention on ensuring she warmed every part of his chilled skin, not the width or breath of his chest, or how the brown hair narrowed in a tantalizing line down the flat of his stomach to join with dark thatch to cradle his length.

  “Dinna rush,” Tighearnán cautioned her from near the hearth. “You must warm him slowly until the skin color returns to normal.”

  “Aye.” She rewarmed the cloth, continued, focusing on the fact that Rónán lived. As to the intimate degree with which she’d tended him—that he would never learn.

  Still, though she’d remained attentive to the task, his honed muscle, hard planes that carved his body into a man of power was one who a lass would be blind not to be drawn to.

  Nor did she overlook his qualities, that of a man who’d earned her trust, his word when given, one backed by action. A knight who’d made it clear that his intent was to support their king in his endeavor to eradicate those who challenged his rightful place.

  Her hand paused in its task. A potent reminder that once they’d rescued her father and the arms were delivered to the Bruce, she’d never see Rónán again.

  And what of her father? Please God let him still live. Though, like their attackers, he believed her dead. After the loss of her mother, a blow that would leave him devastated.

  Her hand trembled as she drew the warmed cloth slowly across Rónán’s toes.

  “How is he faring?” the fisherman asked as he moved to her side.

  She cleared her throat, taking in the soft flush of color on his skin. “Much better. He is barely shivering, and his skin color is returning. But, from his expressions in his sleep, he is in pain.”

  “And will be until his body is entirely warmed. Let me help you so that you can tend to his backside.” He carefully turned Rónán onto his stomach.

  “I thank you.” After rewarming the cloth, she slowly drew it over his shoulders.

  “The stew is ready, as is the warm drink. Nay doubt you are hungry and exhausted. Go. I will do the rest.”

  “I will finish.” She met his gaze. “’Tis important to me.”

  He stroked his beard as he studied her. With a nod, he walked over and sat at the table where his daughter quietly ate.

  Face illuminated by the soft wash of flames, as her father settled beside her, Órlaith peered at Lathir beneath thick brown lashes.

  Lathir smiled, and the child’s eyes widened and turned away. She was shy. Not surprising, given her and her father’s secluded location.

  How far were they from a town? Had Tighearnán heard of her father’s abduction? Doubtful, when but days had passed since the incident, more so considering that if anywhere, Tighearnán would have gone fishing.

  She shoved her wet hair away from her face with a weary sigh and, soaking the cloth again in the warm water, she drew it across Rónán’s outer thigh, paused.

  A birthmark.

  Intrigued, she traced her finger over the uneven brown path of skin a thumb’s width to where it faded into a curl. A unique design. What did he think of its presence? As if it mattered. As an orphan, the unique mark would hold naught of significance.

  A weary smile touched her mouth as she resumed her task. She needed to continue, nay linger on foolish thoughts.

  A while later, after several refills of warm water, with Rónán’s trembling having subsided and his skin radiating a healthy glow, she secured the covers around him and stepped away. Thankful, she rinsed out the woven fabric, hung it near the hearth to dry.

  The scuff of a boot sounded as their rescuer halted beside Rónán. “Your man is going to be fine.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “I did nay more than you would have done if the circumstance was reversed.”

  “Regardless, we are in your debt. I promise you will be compensated for your help.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “My help didna come with conditions.”

  Lathir remained silent, understanding his pride. Still, she would find a way to pay him back for his selfless aid.

  With Rónán safe, she took in the simple furnishings. Besides the small bed where he lay, a bench sat near a small table, and fishing nets lay neatly folded and stacked in the corn
er, which lent a slight tang of the sea inside the hut. In addition to the chest where she’d retrieved the gown, several more stood against the far wall, no doubt holding spices or other valuables.

  From the ceiling hung an array of dried herbs, some she’d used in preparing food in the past, others for healing, and against the opposite wall were various tools of Tighearnán’s trade.

  To their right, a claymore lay secured in its sheath, the pommel above the leather-wrapped grip ornately carved.

  In the far corner, a ladder led to a loft. From this angle, she caught the edge of a bed. Brown hair spilled from beneath the covers, as did the stringy hair of the well-loved doll that she’d seen the child holding earlier.

  Tenderness filled her heart as she met the father’s gaze. “She is fortunate to have you.”

  He was a man who’d clearly been marked by the sea and its elements—salt, sun, and wind. Yet the taut expression on his face softened. “Órlaith means everything to me.”

  “Your wife?”

  Pain darkened his eyes. “I…I believe she is dead.”

  Grief tightened in her chest. “I am sorry.”

  He gave a curt nod. “Sit, eat. You are hungry.”

  Her stomach growled as he set a tasty scented bowl and steaming drink before her. She sat, scooped up a bit as he settled opposite her, refilled his bowl, then topped off both of their goblets with ale. “If you do not mind my asking, what happened to your wife?”

  Tighearnán swirled the goblet. On a rough sigh, he thumped it on the table. “Two years ago, I went to the village to sell fish. I had a grand catch and had picked out a ribbon to surprise Máire, my wife. But when I returned…” His throat worked and his eyes grew clouded with anguish. “The inside of the hut was in shambles. And the blood… The table was turned over, and cloths were strewn about. Máire had clearly put up a struggle against whoever took her. Then,” he forced out, his voice but a strangled whisper, “I heard Órlaith crying in the loft.”

  “They didna take her,” Lathir rasped.

  “I still canna believe it. So young, she would have been easy to take and claim as their own. The only thing that makes sense is that she was asleep during the attack and the men didna know she was there.” Grief-stricken eyes shifted to her, the devastation within breaking her heart. “Wanting to protect her, my wife would never have exposed our daughter’s presence. I followed the trail, which led to the ocean. Frantic to find my wife, I left Órlaith with trusted friends and scoured every port for months. I threatened, pleaded. In the end, without a whisper of anyone having seen her, I accepted the horrific fact that she must have died from her injuries, and returned home to my daughter.”