Page 23 of The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (The Highlander’s Bride #3)

Chains clanked as the man braced himself against the storm. Being a prisoner and not trusted to have the ship and its crew’s best interests at heart, he had been shackled and shoved below decks as the waves flung themselves at the cog ship. All hands stayed busy topside keeping the ungainly cog afloat. It was a common enough occurrence. Winter and spring were harsh months to be at sea. But during calmer weather, they worked him mercilessly and he welcomed the respite even in this tiny, dark, airless room.

The Draigled Sparra pitched unexpectedly and he struck the back of his head against the rough hull of the ship.

“Shite!” The shackles kept him from protecting himself against every roll of the vessel. From past experience, he knew his wrists would be scuffed and sore from his instinctive reactions to save himself a few bumps and bruises.

A very human moan slid through the creak of twisting wood and the buffeting sounds of the sea. Startled, he cast his gaze about the room, the darkness defeating his search for the source of the noise. The sound did not repeat itself, and he waited, alert and patient, for another clue.

The ship’s roll eventually slowed to the rhythmic sway of open ocean and calmer seas. Daylight seeped through tiny cracks between the planks around him. Soon, enough light leaked into the room for him to discern the lower portion of a leg protruding from behind a wooden cask. Tattered cloth drooped from the bony appendage, the booted foot twisted to one side.

Poor beggar. So that’s what happened to him . He recalled the man the ship’s crew had pulled from the sea the day before. Ragged and thin to the point of emaciation, the man had regaled them of the storm that had destroyed his small boat several days earlier, and left him the sole survivor. With barely enough water to keep him alive and unable to direct his course, he had drifted aimlessly across the water in the remains of his vessel, praying for rescue.

The poor bastard should have prayed for death. He would get no sympathy from these pirates.

The moan sounded again. May as well see to him. ’Twill be a small mercy to sit with him if he is dying, and a bit of diversion if he lives.

Another hand on this ship of death wouldn’t come amiss, though he might not survive long in his condition.

The man stood, knees slightly bent to absorb the gentle roll as the ship tacked through the waves. The storm over, it was only a matter of time before the crew, likely exhausted from their labors, remembered him and demanded he take his place amid the rigging. Moving quickly, he rounded the edge of the barrel, careful not to bark his bare toes against the wooden staves. He stared for a moment at the ragged castaway, then sank to the floor beside him.

“How fare ye?” he asked.

For several moments he received no answer, then a rattling sigh drifted from the prone man’s chest.

“Water?”

“I am sorry, but I have none to give ye.” He waved his hands in the direction of the barrel. “Likely this cask contains a bit of sherry from whatever port we sailed into a week ago, but I have no way of tapping it.”

“The pirates . . .” The castaway’s voice faded away.

“Dinnae care if ye live or die. Ye can recover despite their lack of care, work hard, maybe earn a bit of bread and water, or ye can cock yer toes up and take yer last rest on the waves. Doesnae matter to them.”

With an effort, the battered man roused to his elbows. “Ye are a prisoner, too?”

“Aye. These past six months. ”

“What is yer name?”

“That is an interesting question. Ye see, I dinnae know my true name. The pirates dragged me aboard, so they say, with a wound that nearly cleaved my head in two. I wasnae a pretty sight for a long time, and still have this scar to remind me.” He tilted his head to the side and ran a finger down the length of the knotted skin.

“’Tis a miracle ye lived.”

“The pirates thought so, too. ’Tis why they call me Ferlie .” He rattled the chains on his wrists. “’Tis my thought they are a wee bit afraid to chuck me overboard. Being a superstitious lot, they dinnae know what to do with a man who is so lucky to be alive.” He grimaced. “I worry one day my luck will run out.”

* * *

The pirates did not question Ferlie as he went about his work mending the storm-torn rigging. Nor did they interfere as he nursed the castaway back to health. Within a week, the man, Greum, tottered onto the deck.

“Och. I never thought to see the sunlight again.” Greum gripped the railing as he breathed the fresh sea air. “Do ye know where we are?”

Ferlie sat on a nearby wooden chest, fingers splicing together a torn piece of rigging. “They dinnae share their precious store of knowledge, but if I am not mistaken, we are near the coast of France.”

“So far from home? What do they trade for there?”

Ferlie glanced up, lifting a hand against the bright glare of the sun. “The bilge rats dinnae trade. They will salvage any wrack and wraith they find. A ship that founders on the sea is God-sent as far as they are concerned. Take the bounty, leave the poor souls behind. France? My guess ’tis sherry and brandy they are after.”

Greum gasped. Ferlie shrugged. “’Tis nothing I can do.”

“Nae, I understand ye are one shackled man against thieving pirates. I wish to look at ye again. In the light.” Greum motioned for him to draw closer.

Ferlie sent a wary look over his shoulder. “We cannae seem to be in deep conversation. They will assume we are plotting mischief.”

Greum stared at him, his lips an ‘O’ of surprise. “Lad, ye must know who ye are. ”

Ferlie gave the older man a sharp look. “Do ye know me?”

“Nae, lad. I dinnae know ye. But yer eyes—they are the mark of the Macraig.”

Pain flashed through Ferlie’s head, pulling sharply at his memory. “What do ye mean?”

“’Tis the first I have seen them—in the light, I mean. They are an unusual golden color. Laird Macraig, and generations before him, stamp each of their bairns so.”

One of the pirates shouted across the deck. “Get back to work, ye scunners ! Afore we feed yer carcasses to the fish.”

Ferlie handed Greum his mending. “Here. ’Tis not such strenuous labor. I will find else to do.” He rose abruptly and shuffled away.

* * *

“I am so glad ye are here, Gilda,” Lissa sighed. “Da and I are both glad.”

Gilda caught Lissa’s furtive glance in her direction. “Yer da has ignored me. He doesnae truly want me here.” She raised a finger to stem Lissa’s protest. “I am just visiting. I will go home to have the baby.”

“But, Gilda. Ard is your home.”

“Please, let us not argue, Lissa. I want to be with my ma and Tavia then.”

The dark-haired girl pouted. “Aye. I understand that. But the heir should be born here.”

Gilda held her tongue. She knew Lissa did not see her da’s scowls and dark looks of disapproval each time he encountered Gilda. As much as he disliked the Macrorys, and her in particular, she could not fathom the reason he had allowed Lissa to invite her here.

She perused the young girl, now busily chatting with Keita as they plied their needles. Though their efforts produced charming clothing for the babe, Gilda grew weary of the endless days of sewing and embroidery. She did not feel her activity should be restricted in the least, but the laird refused to allow them to leave the castle. Of course, sitting in the solar with the women was a good way to avoid the dour man, but enough was enough. Vexed with the long days, she wanted answers to her questions, and planned to seek them out today.

Placing her sewing in the basket at her side, she smiled briefly at the other ladies and strolled through the door. Seeing a guard posted at the door to the laird’s private chamber off the great hall told her instantly he was there, likely going over papers or accounts. With a gracious nod, she halted at the closed door. In a murmur sounding much more serene than she felt, she addressed the guard.

“Please announce me to the laird.”

The guard was gone only a moment, though it seemed far longer to Gilda’s tightly strung nerves. Without a word, he held the door open for her. She picked up her courage and her skirts as she entered the room.

She shuddered at the chill of the room. Warmth emanated from the fire on the hearth, but could not dispel the late spring cold penetrating the stone walls. Laird Macraig did not acknowledge her presence and she halted before his desk, glancing around the room as she waited.

Moments dragged by, punctuated only by the rasp of a quill as the laird moved a hand, spotted with age, across the parchment on his desk. It soon became clear he had no intention of indulging her with any of the respect or courtesies she was accustomed to. Hiding her annoyance, she swallowed to clear her throat before speaking.

“I want to know why ye summoned me to Ard Castle.” She lifted her chin. “The truth, please.”

Laird Macraig finally lifted his gaze from the parchments before him to stare at her, but she could read nothing of his thoughts. Beneath heavy brows, his peculiar amber eyes remained shuttered.

Shifting uncomfortably under his silent scrutiny, she took a deep breath and pursued her question. “I came here because Lissa is still heartbroken over her brother’s death and talk of the babe cheers her up. She truly wants me here. I want to know why you sanctioned her request.”

Shrugging, he at last replied, “If Lissa is happy, ’tis one less thing I am vexed with.”

“I am not here to solve yer vexing problems.”

Laird Macraig grunted. “Seems as though ye are.”

Frustrated with his unflinching coldness, she spun about, her skirts swirling heavily about her ankles. Pale sunlight from the single window in the room bled a path across the floor, illuminating a sword and battered targe angled in a corner of the hearth. Ryan’s weapons.

She whirled back to the laird’s desk. “Ye dinnae like me and dinnae acknowledge the vows Ryan and I pledged to each other before he died. Yet ye have to believe we married for ye to see this child as yer heir.”

Shifting his attention back to the sheets of vellum on his desk, Laird Macraig waved her away with a motion of his hand. “If ye carry Ryan’s bairn, ye belong here.”

“If !” Gilda all but screeched. Indignation rose in her, stifling her frustration, fueling her temper. She leaned forward and grasped the edge of the desk in a white-knuckled grip, forcing the man to look at her. “Ye are a bastard, Laird Macraig! How dare ye question the babe’s father?”

He smirked, tapping his quill against his fingers. “Care to discuss who the real bastard is in this room, Lady Gilda?”

Her chest tightened and she fought for control. “Ye are an evil man! Ye offered for my ma when I was but a bairn, yet refused to give yer name or home to me. How dare ye? Ye felt slighted when she and her da refused yer offer, and started a feud that benefits no one. Now that I have something ye want, ye think ye can order my life? Ye are the bastard here, m’laird, make no mistake. I willnae raise my bairn in yer poisonous home.”

Laird Macraig’s face darkened with a thunderous look. “The bairn’s heritage is here!”

“My bairn’s heritage will be one of love and acceptance. I willnae raise him among auld fears and regrets.”

“Ye cannae leave here. I forbid it.”

“Forbid all ye want, auld man. I am going home!” Gilda pushed away from the desk, her head spinning with emotion.

Laird Macraig surged to his feet. “Guard!”

The door burst open and an armed man appeared in the opening. Gilda scarcely slowed her step. Casting him a furious look, she spat her angry words. “Touch me and I will draw blood.”

With a startled glance at his laird, the man edged to the side, allowing Gilda to pass.

“Ye amadan! Dinnae let her leave!” The laird snarled his anger, and the guard took a hesitant step toward Gilda, but did not reach for her. The door between them closed.

Gilda’s pace quickened. She could not, would not stay a moment longer. It took effort to control the building panic within her.

Hurrying down the hallway, Lissa caught up with her. “What is wrong, Gilda? Ye are all but running!”

Biting her lip against angry words, she huffed. “Yer da is a fool! ”

“I dinnae understand.”

“He wants to use my babe to continue the feud between the Macraigs and Macrorys.”

“Why?” The pair rushed past startled servants who quickly stepped out of their way. Gilda gripped her skirts in both hands, lifting them away from her feet to keep from tripping over them.

“Ye are too young to understand, Lissa. Yer da is full of hate, not love. I am going home.”

Lissa caught Gilda’s hand, effectively halting her steps. “Oh, Gilda! Ye are my sister now, and I couldnae bear to see ye leave. Please say ye will stay with me.”

Gilda’s heart broke to hear Lissa’s pleading, but she wasn’t about to stay under the same roof as Laird Macraig a moment longer than she had to. “Come with me,” she urged the young girl. “Ye would be such a help to me.” And spending time away from yer da could only help ye.

Lissa’s brow puckered, clearly unsure what to say or do. When she met Gilda’s gaze again, her eyes were round with building excitement.

“Do ye think I should?”

Gilda hugged the girl’s slender shoulders. “Of course! I will send a message to my da today. We will need an escort, and I doubt Laird Macraig will be willing.”

* * *

Laird Macraig’s cloak billowed behind him, catching the cold morning wind. Even across the bailey, Gilda felt the weight of his disapproval. She was grateful her da had responded so quickly, for she feared the lengths the auld laird would take to keep her at Ard Castle.

“How fare ye, Lissa?” She leaned close to whisper to the younger girl. To her surprise, Lissa met her question with a broad smile, her face beaming with happiness.

“I have never been anywhere but Ard Castle. This is verra exciting!”

“Good. Ye will have a grand visit. Ye know ye can come home whenever ye like.”

Lissa burrowed deep within the hood of her arisaid. “I know. But I wish we were there already. ’Tis verra cold! ”

Gilda shivered as a cold blast from the firth bit deep. “Most of the ride will be in the forest. The wind shouldnae be so fierce there.” Accepting help from her father’s captain, she climbed into the wagon, her advancing pregnancy denying her Fia’s saddle. The team ducked their heads away from the wind as they exited the castle gates.

Wind whistled off the water, numbing Gilda’s fingers and bringing tears to her eyes. Today was a day for staying close to the hearth. She thought longingly of the warm bed she and Ryan had once shared. Bracing against the icy rain spitting from leaden clouds, she turned her back on Macraig land.

Today was a day for going home.