Page 2 of Laird of Sighs (His Highland Heart #5)
CHAPTER 2
T he next morning, Mariota stood outside Dunrobin’s keep with hands clasped tightly at her rapidly disappearing waist and watched her husband and his twin brother prepare to set off in opposite directions. Stellan stood just inside the gate, dressed for several days’ ride in heavy woolen trews and plaid with a long sword slung in its scabbard on his back, boots, and a wool bonnet. He carried more blades on his person, tucked out of sight but reachable, plus a dirk at his belt and sgian dubh tucked in his boot. He was talking to his father and his twin, but his gaze kept lifting to her. He’d visited the nursery first thing this morning to see their son, and had already kissed her goodbye, but still, she wanted to run after him and hold him one more time. That she could not do, not in front of the entire clan. Instead, she kept her chin up, held back her tears, and gave him smiles full of love and pride for the mission he undertook.
Stellan’s men were dressed and armed similarly. Each carried packets of the herbs the MacKay healer had requested under their clothes to help them stay dry. If anything happened to any one or several of the men, at least some of the herbs would get through. The men waited for Stellan outside the gate with his horse, ready to ride to the northwest across Sutherland into MacKay territory. She could see the cross-guard and pommel of another longsword rolled up in his spare plaids and topped by packages of food and skins of water and wine Cook had provided.
To Mariota, their preparations seemed excessive. After all, she’d ventured out into the same territory from MacKay with little more than a broken-down horse and a hawk. But Stellan wanted to ensure no trouble found them that could not be dealt with before it grew worse. Even though it was still late summer, the Highland weather could change hour by hour, bringing rain or even sleet and snow on the higher hills. They were wise to prepare for anything.
Laird Sutherland finished speaking to his sons, came and stood beside her, outwardly calm and watchful, but she had come to know him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders and in the fine lines around his eyes. His head turned and his gaze shifted from Stellan to Anders as the twins hugged each other, and then separated, ready to go their own ways.
Anders sketched a bow toward her and the throng milling around the bailey to watch the beginning of the race. That raised a cheer, and he grinned, waved, and signaled to the men going with him to follow him across the open ground outside the gate to the cliff stairs.
Below, on the North Sea’s shore, the Sutherland birlinn waited for them to board and venture north then west across the top of Scotland. He and his men would sail past a narrow strip of Clan Gunn territory and a wider swath of Clan Oliphant before they passed Clan Sinclair territory, a rival of long-standing with Sutherland.
With good weather, Anders would likely reach MacKay first. But that was not guaranteed. If they ran into trouble on the Pentland Firth, Sinclair or a small Keith holding would be their only opportunities to come ashore before reaching MacKay territory and her former home, castle Varrich, deep in the Kyle of Tongue. Anders had chosen the more perilous journey. His ship could face deadly dangers, a quest he would never return from. But despite what she’d said to him earlier, she couldn’t imagine anything happening to him. He was irrepressible. Good natured, yet as competent—and confident—as his minutes-older twin. She told herself not to borrow trouble. She cared for him as a brother, and wished him well.
Her gaze shifted back to Stellan as he swung onto his horse to more cheers and well-wishes shouted by their people. In addition to riding Sutherland’s borders, Stellan had made the trip from Dunrobin to MacKay several times. Barring accident or attack by man or beast, he and his men could have the safer of the two trips, but no one had ever made it in such haste. Mariota couldn’t help her concern for him, though surely everyone at MacKay knew that Sutherland was sending help. She’d never found out if her tormentor at MacKay had left behind followers who might still cause problems along the route. She consoled herself that Seamus would have mentioned any trouble within the clan caused by former friends of Alber’s and would be prepared to defend against them if need be.
Sutherland muttered, “They’ll keep safe,” surprising her. Was he speaking to dispel her fears, or his own? Her husband, father of her son and another bairn on the way, was also making a trip that could prove dangerous. Even deadly.
She glanced aside at him, reluctant to take her gaze from the retreating figure of her husband, but needing to determine if his father’s attention had truly strayed from his sons to reassuring her.
His gaze followed Anders, shifting briefly to Stellan before he disappeared around the corner of the Dunrobin tower, headed inland. He looked at Anders again as he disappeared little by little down the cliff steps. So he’d spoken to put his own mind at rest. She didn’t like the sense of disquiet that radiated from him.
“Aye, they will keep safe,” Mariota assured her father-in-law just as softly, hoping to ease both their fears. If Laird Sutherland heard her, he’d know she’d heard his words. She hoped he would accept her encouragement as much as she longed to accept his. She had to believe he spoke truly. But she didn’t like the concern in his tone.
Was this leave-taking so different from when the clan went to war? For many years, the Sutherland laird had lived with the reality that many men lost their lives in such battles. Did he ever come to accept it? She didn’t know how to ask him, and while watching both his twins leaving, this was certainly not the time.
Mariota dreaded the day she watched Stellan ride into battle. She loved him, and loved her life at Sutherland. She couldn’t imagine going on without him, raising their wee son without him, or the bairn she had yet to give him. The very thought of losing him made cold chills run down her spine. She crossed her arms and hugged her middle. Nay, she would not think that way. Stellan would return home, and so would Anders and all their men. Mission accomplished, medicinal herbs delivered to MacKay’s healer, fastest route determined for once and for all. No other possibility was acceptable. Or imaginable.
A few hours later, Anders took a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the tang of salt in the fresh breeze, the warmth of the midday sun on his skin, the surge of the tiller against his hand and the slap of oars as the men rowed through calm seas. Summer was moving past its height. Though the longest days of the year were waning, they’d made him eager for new horizons and new adventures. Fair weather always tempted him to travel. The call from MacKay and the way Sutherland chose to answer it had come at a perfect time.
He’d been too long at home. Posturing by Domnhall and Mar over Ross territory had abated to the point that Sutherland had not felt the need recently to send him traveling around the Highlands to see what news he could carry home. Or what trouble they needed to prepare for, including whether Islemen or Royalist troops were on the move again.
Instead, he’d watched Stellan settle into blissful married life with Mariota, the birth of his heir Beathan and their anticipation of a brother or sister for him. Anders had played the conversation he’d had with his twin at Stellan’s wedding over and over in his mind, including the vow he’d made never to settle and to find a bride he could love as Stellan loved Mariota and she loved him. A bride he could bring home so that he and Stellan could rule Sutherland together when the time came, as they’d vowed to each other when they were nine years old and about to be fostered away from Sutherland and away from each other for the next seven years.
The frustration of sitting at home, tempted by the same lasses he’d known all his life, but knowing none of them were his Mariota, made him eager for any change. Stellan had found a bride at MacKay. Perhaps he would, too.
At the very least, this quest got him away from home, away from the all-too-familiar aspects of his life, and fed his need for new horizons. He expected the run across the Pentland Firth would be as much adventure as any man on this birlinn needed. Beyond that, he would take what came and hope for the best.
Which was why he was on this birlinn , sailing north, testing the more hazardous route while his twin rode hard to the northwest, trying to beat him to MacKay. The sun glinted on the ripples that disturbed the smoothness of the North Sea. This near the coast, he could see the shore break, white with foam, at the foot of cliffs interspersed with rolling hills that sloped gently down to the sea.
“We need more wind if we're to win yer wager,” Tomas commented from Anders’ side at the stern. “We canna match the speed of a good blow by rowing.”
“Aye, ’tis a long way to row,” Anders agreed. “We didna bring enough men to row the whole route. But I’ll wager once we get up the coast a wee, we’ll have all the wind ye want. And more than ye want once we get to the Pentland. Have a care what ye wish for.”
“Aye, and I ken it.” Tomas scanned the sky in all directions. “’Tis calm now, but ’twill change soon.”
Anders frowned at the sky, looking for what elicited Tomas’ prediction. “What do ye see that I dinna?”
Tomas shook his head. “Naught now, lad. But I feel it in me bones. Mayhap tomorrow? Nay. We’ll ken by this night. For now, ’tis time to row. Before long, we’ll put up the sails.” He slapped Anders on the back and stepped away to take the place of one of the other men at an oar.
Anders followed and did the same after another man came to relieve him at the tiller. He enjoyed the pull and tug on his muscles of the oar in his hands, but Tomas’ words concerned him. Tomas was the most experienced sailor Sutherland had. He’d crossed the Moray Firth countless times, sailed the Scottish coast south nearly as often, and braved the Pentland Firth successfully three times. If Tomas was wary of a change in the weather, Anders knew to pay attention to him. How much time did they have before their fair weather changed to threaten them? Tomas said they’d know by this night.
Their men were strong, and their birlinn , though not the largest in Sutherland’s small fleet, was seaworthy. They could face almost anything the sea threw at them. But to be sure, they stayed just in sight of the coast. Any closer and they might run aground on a sandbar or drowned sea stack. Further out to sea with a cloud-covered sky and no stars to guide them, they could lose their way. They would put into shore if things got too wild. Anders understood why Stellan preferred the hazards of dry land over being at the mercy of wind and waves. He would not risk his men or Sutherland’s birlinn .
A sudden rise and drop followed by a spray of cold water in his face woke Anders from a deep sleep, sleep he’d earned taking his turns at the oars during the hours when the wind fell off. They’d had a good following wind later in the afternoon, but it had died with the sunset, leaving them again to row in shifts.
He looked up, but the stars were hidden behind clouds. Tomas had been right. The weather was going to turn against them. How soon? He rolled to his feet and made his unsteady way aft to the tiller. The sea swell had increased, so had the rise and fall and side-to-side sway of the birlinn . If that kept up, some of the men would be hanging over the side soon, emptying their bellies. Tomas stood at the tiller, eyeing the sky. “’Tis like to blow,” he announced. “If we’re smart, we’ll put ashore and let it pass over us.”
“And let Stellan reach MacKay first?” Anders kept his tone light. He’d known this was a possibility. “Where are we?”
“By my reckoning, before we lost the sky, I’d say we’re close to Sinclair Bay.”
“Bloody hell. In view of Girnigoe castle is no’ someplace I would choose to go aground. Can we make it past Sinclair territory to Oliphant or Keith?”
“Oliphant is behind us. A wee Keith seafront faces into the Pentland. We’re along Sinclair land until after we turn into that strait.”
“Damn.” Fate was favoring Stellan even in the race.
“If it comes to that or drowning, I’ll take me chances with Sinclair,” Tomas said. “Wouldna ye?”
Anders nodded. “Aye. But let’s no’ do that yet. We’ve been in rougher seas than these. Take us closer to shore for now.”
Before long, the seas got much rougher. First the wind picked up, then the rain hit in sheets, blowing sideways. Squalls intensified the heavy seas. Tomas and he traded a look. The birlinn was no match for these conditions. Anders nodded and Tomas turned the tiller, aiming their pointed bow toward the shore now hidden in the dark behind sheeting rain and wave peaks. Lightning flashes provided the only glimpses of the coastline. Anders went forward to scan for a safe landing place. At first, the brief lightning flashes only showed cliffs, but Anders knew the rough seas between them and those cliffs would hide what lay at their feet. One with a small, sandy beach would let them wait out the storm protected from Sinclair patrols, but they would risk the birlinn being battered to pieces against cliff walls if the tide rose too high before they could escape. He wouldn’t endanger his men that way if he could help it. A gentler slope that led upward out of the range of the storm tide would be safer. Anders hoped to find one of those. Any Sinclair with any sense would not venture out in this weather tonight.
Eventually Anders spotted a small beach without steep cliffs behind it, just a gentle rise to the upper meadows and rolling hills beyond them. They rowed hard for it. He stayed forward, on the lookout for submerged rocks that could wreck the birlinn and leave them stranded—or worse. He turned to wave a course correction to Tomas when a wave hit them broadside, not quite tipping over the birlinn . The only one of the men not anchored by the oar they held or the tiller, he groped for a handhold and missed. Anders had only a moment to see crates of their supplies spilling over the side as he pitched overboard and sank. Stunned by the sudden fall and the shocking cold of the water, he kicked to the surface. A flash of lightning showed him the beach they were headed for, but he’d lost sight of the ship in the dark and the wave peaks dancing higher than his head.
Damning his luck, he swam, knowing the exertion would help keep him warm in the freezing water. He was tempted to kick off his boots, but he’d need them on the beach, so he worked against the drag of his clothes and boots. Before long, the effort and the cold took their toll. When a crate bobbed by, he grabbed it and hung on, praying the wind and tide would push it to shore. And praying it didn’t contain the herbs the MacKay bairn needed. With those, even if Anders didn’t make it, the birlinn could continue and complete their mission.
Still, he knew the crew would abandon that mission to search for him. He should hear them calling for him, but over the roar of the waves and the bellow of thunder, he didn’t hear any voices. They were probably bailing sea and rain water as fast as they could to keep their ship afloat, torn between that, trying to find him, and making it to the same beach he was fighting to reach. He called out whenever he could, but got slapped with a mouthful of sea water with each attempt. He kicked and kept an eye on his goal, that strip of lighter sand barely visible now and again as the choppy waves ebbed and rose. His muscles began to cramp and he knew if he didn’t make shore very soon, he would drown. He redoubled his efforts, but the crate seemed to have become more of an impediment than a help.
In the next lightning flash, his desperate attempt to pierce the rain and sea spray for the birlinn only showed him an oar floating nearby. Despite dreading what a loose oar might mean for his ship, he reached for it. It would be easier to grip, and it would move more cleanly through the water. It was also too far away. He let go of the crate and swam for it. A wave spun it out of his reach and he cursed his luck. Why had he let go of the crate?
Something cracked into the back of his head and drove his face into the water. He came up sputtering and seeing stars for the moment it took the oar to swing closer. He grabbed it and hung on, wincing at the sudden dizziness and pain inside his head. How hard had he been hit? By the crate? With this cold numbing every part of him, his injury could be worse than it seemed. But he was determined to survive. Stellan wouldn’t know what to do without him, he told himself. And their father would be furious he’d pushed the crew to go on when they knew the weather would turn against them. He had no choice but to make it to shore.
But the chill of the water was turning his skin to ice and his muscles stiff and unyielding. He wasn’t sure he could hang on. He kicked, groaning at the cramped muscles that protested his insistence on movement. Somehow, he made it to the beach, his feet finding unsteady footing in the relentless pull and tug of the pounding surf. He staggered and fell onto jagged rocks, skinning his palms, shoved himself again to his feet using the oar’s handle as a crutch, fell again and barked his shins on submerged rocks. Eventually, he pulled himself out of the water and a few feet up the beach. There, the head wound and the cold water took their toll. The black night crowded in and covered him until he knew nothing more.